


so real in the dark

by BirchBow (chaoticTenebrism)



Category: Motorcity
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Androids, Aphrodisiacs, Bigotry & Prejudice, Body Horror, Body Modification, But all sex had relating to it is very consensual, Cyborgs, Friends to Lovers, Hook-Up, Intentionally-Induced Amnesia, Intentionally-Induced Amnesia For The Purpose Of Hooking Up, Mutual Pining, Stranger Sex, Temporary Amnesia, one instance of, past cyborg related, that's not a tag that AO3 has but it's a very specific concept okay, the moral of the story is all sex is, when you get your memory wiped before and after
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 22:05:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 79,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15567330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaoticTenebrism/pseuds/BirchBow
Summary: The captain and first mate of the Burner have been best friends for as long as they can remember.  At some point, between cyborg surgeries and stealing ships, running away from their home planet and fighting off every soldier and bot the tyrannical Kane Combine sent after them, they might have accidentally fallen for each other, too.  But they're best friends, and whatever either of them might feel for the other one has been ending up unspoken for years.Until the universe solves their problems for them. A string of bad luck dumps each of them into the arms of a perfect, mysterious stranger in an anonymous hook-up terminal in the middle of nowhere.  Unfortunately it's hard to start up a relationship when every detail about your partner is wiped out of your brain as soon as your hook-up is over.  And the closer they get to the mysterious strangers they've been meeting, the further they seem to pull away from each other.





	1. Prologue - Welcoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW IT'S HAPPENING. I started writing this fic at least...three years ago? Then I ran out of steam, posted the few snippets I had on my tumblr, and consigned it to the "never to be posted" pile. And then JJ min (minncompany on tumblr) made me a single beautiful piece of fanart for it and my brain went "Oh yeah, that thing!" and now it's 86,000+ words later and I CANNOT BE STOPPED.
> 
> Thank you to Jem/rollerskatinglizard for relentlessly beta-ing SO many sci-fi amnesia shenanigans, helping me juggle all my plotlines and catching my many, many typos.

Mike scrapes together the money to get the Duke himself to put out the call for new crew-members. The man is a huge pain to deal with, and as likely to bring down five types of hell on their heads as help them, but…he’s got the range, he’s got the broadcasting power, and they need people. The usual channels aren’t going to work, not for this crew; the brand of rebel-with-a-cause they’re looking for isn’t in prison cells and seedy barely-floating space stations. It’s not for employ—it’s people who don’t like the way the galaxy is being run, who don’t like the stranglehold the Kane Combine is putting on every known planet it can find. People who want to fight, but only because that’s the only way to make things fair again.

People like them.

“There isn’t anybody like you,” Chuck had said, tired, because honestly it’s true. But Mike just laughed and kept writing, spilling out words that should by all rights be idealistic bullcrap but, by the sheer fact that _Mike fucking Chilton_ wrote them, somehow become real.

…It’s a long shot, either way. Chuck screened the preliminary calls, sitting in his worn-out chair on the bridge with his eyes closed and his mind deep in the network, fending off nosey probes about their location and overeager calls from bounty hunters who lead with their list of KaneCom kills.

He didn’t tell Mike about the latter. There’s a lot of things that make Mike…tired; the idea of people capturing platoons of young men pressed into Kane’s service and jetting them out an airlock is one of them. So they don’t really talk about that, because if there’s one thing Chuck just can’t handle in the galaxy it’s the way Mike’s whole body crumples when he’s hurting.

So Chuck cleared out the bounty hunters, and the thinly-veiled KaneCom phishers. He sent polite and encouraging but very firm messages to the too-idealistic untrained citizens with no qualifications to speak of, the ones who were looking to throw themselves into a fight they didn’t understand. He and Mike nixed name after name, and in the end they sat and stared up at the pictures of three potential new crewmates, larger than life on their screens.

“This is probably a bad idea,” said Chuck.  The words were familiar by then, routinely ignored, more of a tradition than a warning.

“I know,” said Mike, like he always did. “Give ‘em a rendezvous.”

—

The three potential new crew members sit in the cargo bay on boxes of freeze-dried rations and crates of spare jump-engine parts. Two men—one tall and dark-skinned, with magnificently unapologetic hair, and one short and broad with a contentious expression and a way of sitting that’s loud even when he’s not talking. One woman, slim and sitting perfectly still, but tense with a kind of quiet readiness, eyes flicking around the room. They sit in a wide circle, not quite distrustful but not sitting within arm’s reach either, throwing glances at each other.

When Mike comes in, trailing Chuck behind him like a nervous cargo-hauler, all of them turn to look at him instead. Chuck picks at his jacket sleeves and fidgets uncomfortably at the attention. Mike doesn’t, of course.

Chuck is hanging back on purpose, and not just because having people staring at him makes the back of his neck feel hot and cold and his stomach churn. Mike just makes a much more impressive picture, standing there in the long coat and the boots like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Everybody’s eyes follow basically the same general path, every time he walks into a room. First they glance at Chuck, and decide there’s nothing there to see, and then they scan Mike up and down, all six feet of him. They usually pause at the old dogtags hanging openly on his chest, with a vicious line carved across the KaneCom logo. Some of them stop to notice the scars on his cheek and neck and shoulder, pale and shiny against the olive brown of his skin. But in the end everybody ends up in the same place, which is the blinding grin and stupidly handsome face.

Slap a “WANTED” underneath that face, turn it into a surly artist’s rendition and put it on official KaneCom screens, and there’s not a lot of people within a thousand worlds of Deluxe that wouldn’t recognize it.

And then everybody finishes taking in the whole picture of Mike Chilton, Beautiful Reckless Space Vigilante, and looks back at Chuck again instead. Chuck tenses back up so hard he almost pulls a muscle and just kind of…stands there, staring awkwardly back at them as they all size him up. He _doesn’t_ make an impressive picture; sure, he’s even taller than Mike, but he’s also gawky and thin and awkward and about two inches from clinging to Mike’s shoulder like a frightened kid.

He can also feel his face going horribly, vividly red as they stare at him, because of course even though he gets plenty of sun all it’s done for his skin tone is turn him blotchy and sunburned, bleach his hair from blonde to even blonder, and multiply his freckles. If Mike has ever blushed in his life, it’s been hidden by the nice, even, olive tan of his skin, but when Chuck blushes it’s about as subtle as an exploding star.

The whole stare-down process only takes a matter of seconds, fortunately, but it still feels like six or seven lifetimes. Mike gives them all a second, then gives a casual wave like they just met up for drinks or something and goes “Hey!”

There’s a silent second where everybody stares around at each other. Then the woman says, “…Hi?”

The other two men follow suit, mumbling greetings. Mike’s grin gets, if possible, even brighter. “I heard you guys were interested in joining my crew!” he says, without preamble. “I’m Mike.”

“Mike _Chilton_.” The tall black man crosses his arms, squinting at Mike. “Like… _on-the-run-from-the-Kane-Combine_ Mike Chilton. Man. It really is you.”

“Kane wants a lotta people,” says the big guy pointedly, and flexes a little bit, like he’s hoping somebody will ask him how he knows that. When nobody does he scowls and goes on, kind of sulky now. “…You ain’t so special, is all I’m sayin’.”

The woman makes a very quiet noise that sounds kind of like a snort. “He’s a _little_ bit special,” she says, and blinks slowly, cat-like, dark eyes fixed on Mike’s face. “He’s the only bounty Kane wants alive _,_ so he can take his “ _terminal disciplinary action_ ” into his own hands.”  She seems to notice the way that makes Mike’s bright grin waver ever so slightly, because her eyes narrow and she goes on, slower, like she’s testing something. “… _Commander_ Mike Chilton, who was almost Commander Elite of a hundred planets? Most Wanted for eight years running?”

“Sounds about right,” says Mike. His tone is mild, but Chuck’s been his best friend for way too long not to feel the tension in him, or catch the faint edge that always creeps into his voice when somebody mentions his position at KaneCom.

The woman watches him for another second, and whatever she sees seems to pass muster. She sits back, smiling and bright-eyed. “…Standing up to the biggest army in the known universe with one souped-up junker and a surplus of boneheaded optimism,” she says, half-laughing. “I gotta admit, I thought it was impressive when I heard the stories—but if this ship and one crew member is all you have to work with, I’d love to see what you can do with some help.”

“It sounds cooler than it is, when you say it like that,” Mike says, but now he’s smiling too.

“Yeah,” says Chuck fervently. “Haha…cool.  Yeah…”

“I heard you’re mercs,” says the tall man suspiciously. “Heard you were the ones who blew down that colony a couple months ago.”

Mike’s smile falls. “Kane attacked that planet,” he says, sharp and grim. “We’re for hire, but we only fight if we’re attacked. We run errands and protection, usually, or raids on his factories, but we _don’t_ hurt people.” He stops. Chuck nudges his shoulder slightly—Mike takes a deep breath and lets it out slow. “So if you’re here to put notches on your guns,” he says, “You should go somewhere else.”

“But you do get to kick Kane’s butt all the time, right?” The big guy crosses his arms; intricate tattoos shift as his muscles flex impressively. “That’s what it says on your wanted posters, that you kick Kane’s butt a lot.” He squints at Chuck. “…Never seen your poster, though.”

“That’s because he doesn’t have one,” says Mike, very firmly, before Chuck can answer that one. “Kane doesn’t care about anybody but me at this point, and I’m hoping it stays that way. The longer he ignores the rest of my crew, the more blind spots he has to aim at.” He flashes a familiar, sharp-edged grin. “…So we can kick his butt.”

“I’m wanted in a couple places,” Chuck protests, but without any real force. “I’ve got wanted posters.”

“Anyway.” Mike holds up a hand before the man with the tattoos can interject at that. “We can figure out how Kane’s butt needs kicked later. Right now, everybody say hi! Most of you guys have probably at least heard of each other, but I’ve never actually met any of you face-to-face. I’m Mike Chilton. This is the Burner.” He slaps the wall fondly. “My boat. Makes me the captain, turns out. This…” Chuck stifles a startled squawk as Mike reaches up and hooks an arm around his shoulders, pulling him closer and grinning. “—This is my best guy, Chuck, my resident genius. He’s our navigator, runs the ship.”

“You don’t have an android?” The man with the afro gives Chuck a second once-over, a lot more interested this time. Chuck glances down at Mike, and gets an encouraging look and a nod in return. Okay. Okay.

“…I’m a, uh. A cyborg,” he says reluctantly. He manages to keep his voice from wobbling at all, but the expectant wince is out of his control. Mike stares around the circle, arm solid around his shoulders, waiting for any sign of fear or alarm. The tall guy looks startled, and then interested; the big guy looks kind of confused, squinting at Chuck with new intensity. The woman’s face doesn’t give anything away, but she doesn’t look freaked out, either. That’s…pretty good. Chuck unwinces a little.

“We didn’t have any, anybody to neural link, uh,” He’s got this, it’s _fine._ Chuck licks his lips, swallows hard, goes on stronger. “We’re too poor for an android, so…well, I mean I’m not as fast as an android and my link isn’t as strong, but—”

“Aw, nah,” says Mike comfortably, and shakes him a little bit. “Don’t undersell yourself bud, you’re a lifesaver.” To the rest of the new crew, “He’s my first mate, he’s been here as long as I have and he knows even more about this ship than I do. If you have questions, take ‘em to him.”

Chuck is red to the ears—he ducks his head, grinning self-consciously.

“Alright,” says Mike, and pats him on the back once before pulling away again and pointing to the tall man with the afro. “What’s up with you?”

“Dutch Gordy,” says the man. “I’m a mechanic. Heard you needed somebody who didn’t care if Kane came knocking.”

“Yeah.” Mike’s smile falls. “…Yeah, and that’s important. If you didn’t know what you were signing up for, it gets kinda rough out here sometimes.”

“Yeah, ‘ _kinda’_ ,” Chuck mumbles.

“Kane’s crushing Deluxe,” Dutch says, and there’s a spark of defiant bitterness in his eyes, a familiar fire. “And his other planets aren’t doin’ much better. I don’t have a problem ticking him off, if he wants a fight he can come get one.”

“YEAH!” The other man springs up, so sudden and loud every person in the room jumps. He doesn’t seem to notice. “Texas is gonna punch his dumb boats right outta space! HWA-YAH!”

“Whoa, whoa!” Mike is laughing, apparently delighted. Chuck, who still has his hands raised to go for his weapons system, glances at his friend’s face and then drops his hands reluctantly, watching the second guy warily. “Guess that makes you Texas, huh?”

“TEXAS!” proclaims the man again, apparently by way of acknowledgement; he throws an exuberant punch that almost hits the woman next to him. “Martial arts expert, professional badass, didn’t hafta pick this ship but hey you’re welcome. I’m gonna need a gym.”

“Uh…” Mike blinks, then laughs. “Yeah, sure! We’ve got plenty of empty rooms, take your pick. If you’ve got the stuff, we’ve got the space.”

“Ka-chaw,” says Texas, apparently satisfied.

“You’ve been making a lot of trouble for Kane out on the border planets,” says Mike. “Feel ready to take it deeper into KaneCom space, dude?”

“Oh Texas is _so ready_ ,” says Texas, and grins a dangerous grin. “He’s goin’ down!”

“Awesome!” Mike laughs again, and then turns to the third person in the group expectantly, smiling. “How about you?”

“…Julie,” she says quietly. Chuck nudges Mike awkwardly with one elbow—Mike glances back at him and flashes him a reassuring half-smile.

“Full disclosure,” he says, “We looked all three of you up before we let you on-board. Just being safe, y’know. You two…” he gestures at Dutch and Texas, “…are all over the system. Vandalizing Kane Combine property and attacking outposts. So I can get that you’d want to sign up here. But you…” he looks back at Julie. “…you’ve got no record. Your qualifications are good—don’t get me wrong, it’d be great to have somebody with your skill-set onboard—but you never made any trouble. I’m just trying to figure out why you’d want to sign up out of the blue and put yourself on Kane’s radar like that.”

Julie looks back at him evenly for a few long seconds. Then she sighs and nods slowly.

“I’m…a Kane Combine employee,” she says.

Mike’s shoulders tense minutely, then relax again. “No shame in that,” he says mildly. “A lot of people worked for him before they realized what he was like.”

“ _Present tense, Mikey_ ,” Chuck mumbles—one of his hands is resting on the opposite forearm, fingers tapping fast and tense. He’s watching Julie like she’s a bomb about to blow. “Present tense.”

“I _am_ a Kane Combine employee,” Julie repeats, glancing at Chuck. “One of the things I’m bringing on-board with me is a duplicate-transmission system. As far as the Kane Combine knows, I’m still living on Deluxe, going to work every day. As far as they know, my terminal access is still legitimate, and I have managerial access to Combine files. I’m an executive intern.”

“Whoa,” says Dutch. Mike’s eyebrows are faintly visible, rising behind his shaggy bangs. “And nobody notices? If something happened to your copy—”

“If _somehow_ I managed to get myself _fatally injured_ —as an intern in the management sector of the most heavily-guarded building on the most secure planet in the galaxy,” Julie says, with a spark of unexpectedly dry humor, “…Then that body would crumble and my brain would jump back here. I’d re-broadcast myself again as soon as I woke up, and if they came looking they would find me and my best friend at her pod. We’d tell anybody who asked that we’d been partying a little too hard and I needed to come to work with a totally rebooted body that wasn’t as hungover as my actual one. Getting drunk and modding your duplication system for total reboot are both minor disciplinary offenses, but they’ll be quicker to believe that I got reckless with illegal alcohol than that I’m a double agent.” She looks up again, and meets Mike’s eyes. “…Which I am. I want to help you take him down.”

There are a few long moments of silence. Then Dutch sits back again. “…Okay,” he says. “Well—yeah, sounds good.”

“I’ll say.” Mike is grinning, wide and reckless. Chuck glances at his expression and sighs silently, closing his eyes as a stress headache drags at his temples. “Sounds great! Insider intel would be a _lifesaver._ ”

“You really got this thing figured out, huh?” says Dutch, impressed. “How long have you been planning this, man?”

“Six years,” Julie says, and hesitates for just a second before pulling up the right sleeve of her jacket. Where the pale skin of her arm should be, there’s white, smooth Deluxian polymer instead. “I’ve crammed enough hacking equipment in this thing to carve up the first nine or ten levels of clearance in less than a minute, and the copy’s arm will relay back to mine on an untraceable line.” Her voice and her gaze are totally steady, but when she leans forward, eyes fixed on Mike’s face, there’s something about her that seems almost desperate. “I can help you. I _want_ to help.”

Mike and Chuck glance at each other; Mike is starting to smile, an anticipatory kind of joy brightening his dark eyes. Chuck drops his hand away from the trigger for his weapons system, staring at Julie’s arm.

“That’s…pretty impressive,” he says hesitantly, and manages half a smile. “I thought they didn’t let wires—I mean, when I was—management used to be off-limits for anybody with non-standard enhancements.”

“I mean, I’m…really not.” Julie shrugs self-consciously. “Sorry. It’s just a prosthetic, I don’t have any, um…other enhancements.”

“Oh!” God, fuck, why does he even talk— “No, I mean, oh my god, sorry! I didn’t mean to say _you_ were a—I wasn’t trying to call you—  God, sorry.”

“No, it’s okay!” Julie says hurriedly, torn somewhere between amusement and embarrassment. “I don’t mind!”

“Texas is confused,” says Texas. “It’s cool to call you guys wires now?”

Chuck winces. Mike abruptly stops smiling. “No,” he says. “It’s not. They can say it because it’s their—”

“Mike, come on.” Chuck is crumpling in on himself now, mortified. “I shouldn’t have—that was stupid, that was my fault, I got—I dunno, it was dumb. Look, can—can we just finish introducing people?”

Texas looks from Mike to Chuck to Julie for a couple of seconds, brow furrowed, like the information is processing. Then, apparently having fit it into all the necessary places inside his brain, he nods once, firmly, and sits back, still frowning like he’s deep in thought.

“Well—that’s everybody, actually,” says Mike, and takes a look around the circle. “Think we got it, bud.”

“Oh.” Dutch sits up straight. “Wait. Does this mean we’re…in?”

“Oh!” Mike grins. “Yeah! Yeah, if…if you want to be! I thought that was obvious, sorry. Yeah, we’re definitely cool.”

“Well then…” Dutch stands up and lays a hand on the heavy black case he was sitting on. “I actually have, uh…one more person I gotta introduce.”

Mike’s hand doesn’t exactly go for his gun, but his shoulders definitely tense. He doesn’t have to glance back at Chuck—Chuck’s left hand is already resting on his right forearm, feeling the hot hum of power under his skin. Ready for trouble. “Oh, yeah?” Mike says mildly. “Who’s that?”

“Well, he’s…kinda weird,” says Dutch slowly—he must see the way everybody else in the room is looking at him, because he moves slow and careful, hands raised. “But he’s not gonna hurt anybody, I just…didn’t know if you would be okay with him.”

He pushes himself up and turns back to the case he was sitting on. It’s flat and bulky, long and thin but big enough to carry just about anything. Mike glances at Chuck and slides his hand almost casually into his pocket, where his staff is stored. Chuck’s edges away from him, splitting the target, watching Dutch warily.

“Your friend is hiding in a box?” Mike sounds vaguely amused—only somebody who knows him well would recognize the note of tension in his voice. “You coulda just brought—”

“No—I didn’t know.” Dutch sighs. “I didn’t know if you were gonna be okay with it. With him.” He throws a look at Chuck for some reason, covertly. “But…if I’m gonna stay, you’re gonna meet him anyway. So…I guess it’s about time for you to meet him.”

Mike stares at him for a second, and then frowns minutely and glances at Chuck again. Chuck’s eyes flicker from Mike to the box—his lips thin, twisting reluctantly, and then he breathes out through his nose and drops his hand away from his weapons system, deliberately letting his arms go loose at his sides. Mike’s head twitches—the barest hint of a nod—and he pulls his hand out of his pocket.

The lid of the case clicks loose and then slides off with an anticlimactic hiss. For a second, nothing happens. Dutch sits back on his heels, not getting clear of the box but not reaching into it either.

And then the contents of the box sit up and look around.

At first glance, Dutch’s mysterious friend looks like a young man—a teenager, maybe early twenties at the oldest. He’s got shockingly bright green eyes, olive-brown skin a little lighter than Mike’s, and ashy-blonde hair so pale it’s almost grey. But when he turns to look around the circle, there’s a hollow pit where one eye should be and metal glinting in the empty socket. The scarring over his eye stretches down across his face and vanishes under a fitted mask with a stylized, sharp-toothed smile painted on it—from the depth of the gouges on his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, Chuck is fairly sure he doesn’t want to see what’s under that mask.

“This is ROTH,” says Dutch. ROTH pushes himself up in the box and raises an arm to wave hello—his arms end in more nasty scars at each shoulder, and below the shoulder somebody has replaced the missing limbs with two masses of amorphous, grey-green…something. It shifts slightly as he waves, forming the vague shape of hands. The face under his mask doesn’t seem to shift, but he makes a noise anyway—a kind of warped chirping noise. Dutch grins at him and then looks back up at Mike with soft, steady hope in his eyes. “He’s…he used to be a KaneCom bot, but he’s…different now. We’ve been building his AI for years, he’s kinda my best friend.”

ROTH chirps again and pats Dutch’s afro. Mike’s hand, which had crept toward his staff, drops again.

“Hi there,” he says cautiously, and takes a step forward, head on one side, holding out a hand. “I’m Mike.”

ROTH warbles and takes his hand, giving it a firm, businesslike shake. Mike’s half-smile grows into a grin.

“ _Texas doesn’t like it_ ,” says Texas, _sotto voce_ , and is ignored.

“Nice to meet you,” says Julie. She reaches out with her artificial hand. ROTH blinks down at it for a second, and then takes it in both of his and turns it over, whirring curiously. Julie flinches for a second like she wants to pull it away, then takes a breath and lets him examine it, watching with sharp, dark eyes.

Chuck steps forward last, mostly because Mike glances back at him and gives him an encouraging look. ROTH turns to look at him and then steps forward abruptly, almost too close for comfort, and looks at him again. Beeps and blinks a couple of times.

 _Incoming contact request,_ whispers a ping in Chuck’s brain. _Accept?_

It’s been a long, long time since somebody had the hardware and the inclination to establish a neural comm link with Chuck. He stares for a second, blindsided, then spends another couple of slightly frenzied milliseconds trying to remember how to accept a contact request.

_Contact Request Accepted._

_[unit status] <android/helpful/”ROTH”>_

The new input is in a weird format. Not text-English, not even standard code, but a weird combination of the two. ROTH’s “voice” in his head feels like sharp pings of data, hitting one after another. Chuck’s brain whirs for a second, reordering, trying different interpretations, and then the data clicks into a sort of rhythm. An introduction.

“Chuck,” says Chuck. “I’m—Chuck.”

[ _new unit: status unknown] <CHUCK>_ says ROTH, and holds out a hand. _[unit designation: unknown_ ] _< CHUCK::function>_[ _inquiry_ ] Or…what would that be in words, even? “ _What are you?”_ or no, more like… _“What do you do?”_

“I, uh…I run the bridge?” says Chuck, and takes the hand cautiously. The polymers in ROTH’s arms feel soft, a little bit spongy, slightly cooler than human flesh but not cold. There are tiny, glimmering conduits under the surface, like glowing veins. Chuck stares at them for a second, curious and amazed, and then realizes he’s staring and shakes the thought off. “Or, I guess…I guess that would probably be you now? Ha.”

ROTH looks at him very seriously for a second, and then gives his hand a squeeze. _[unit status: navigator_ ]< _trusted/experienced/ownership::vessel/enhancements::quality >_

“I—oh!” Chuck stammers for a second, startled, then manages, “—Uh…thanks! Yours are pretty cool too.” What kind of android knows how to give _compliments_ , of all things? They’re not exactly a necessary function, especially not for a KaneCom android. Deluxe doesn’t believe in socializing with their bots, and underneath the strange surface layer of customization this guy’s programming feels like Deluxe through and through.

“Chuck?”

Mike is watching him, brow furrowed. Chuck becomes abruptly aware that half of this conversation has taken place internally through cybernetics, and crumples under the sudden weight of self-consciousness. “Sorry,” he says. “We were just…talking.”

“Oh yeah!” Dutch brightens. “Forgot you could actually talk to him. That’s so cool—ROTH, you’re not gonna hafta play charades to talk to us anymore!”

 _[unit status] <capable/INVALID_INPUT::happy/entertain/”charades”/entertained> _ ROTH says, and it shouldn’t be possible for an android to sound disgruntled but he kind of _does,_ somehow.

“ROTH says, uh.” Chuck glances over, not sure he’s supposed to be translating. “…He says he really likes charades, though.”

Dutch stares at him for a second, and then bursts out laughing. Mike laughs too, confused and amazed and delighted, and ROTH warbles and keens, mangled audio output that doesn’t quite sound like a laugh anymore. [ _unit status: DUTCH] <engineer/trustworthy/skilled/friend> _he tells Chuck, and pats the back of Dutch’s neck, head on one side. Chuck has communicated with a few machines since he got enhanced, some of them basic and some of them crazy advanced, mind-bogglingly complex—he’s never felt an engineered mind communicated love and fondness as clearly as that. [unit status: Dutch]< _family >_

 _That means a lot, coming from an android,_ Chuck messages back, and ROTH’s eye flashes as he gets the message and then crinkles like under the mask he’s smiling.

“What’s up with his _face_?” Texas has made his way over by now, squinting warily at ROTH like he’s expecting him to explode. “And his weird arms.”

ROTH blinks as Texas pokes at him, and then raises one spongy arm and pokes Texas back. Texas yells and karate chops at him, scrambling back like ROTH just pulled a gun; ROTH jumps too, apparently startled, and forms his hands into flat, blunt planes, imitating Texas’s nervy karate-chopping with sharp little beeps and chirps.

“Whoa! Whoa, buddy.” Dutch is laughing, one hand on ROTH’s thin shoulder. “You told him!” Then, to Texas, “He was a KaneCom droid. He got beat up on a mission, and they just…dumped him.”

ROTH whirrs again, eye narrowing, and makes fists with his amorphous hands. Dutch pats his shoulder again, frowning.

“Yeah, it was…messed up,” he says. “ROTH’s way too good for them anyway. Jerks.”

ROTH chirps, nodding in satisfaction, and wraps an arm around Dutch’s shoulders.

“What,” says Texas. “So, like…he’s yours now?”

“Sounds like he’s his now,” says Chuck.

“You said it!” Mike laughs and slaps ROTH on the back. “Hi! ROTH? Nice to have you onboard. You know anything about flying a ship?”

ROTH’s eye crinkles like he’s smiling again—he snaps off a sharp salute to Mike, then steps deliberately to one side and inclines his head to Chuck.

[ _unit status: CHUCK_ ]< _new/friend/officer/navigator >_

“I seriously don’t mind,” says Chuck, nonplussed and more than a little bit flushed. “You can—I was always a second-hand android replacement anyway, ha—”

ROTH’s brows furrow. _[unit status: CHUCK] <vessel::officer/care-taker>[query]_

“Of course I do, she’s my home.”

[ _unit status: CHUCK_ ]< _navigator/care-taker/hers >_

_[unit status] <appreciate/learn/assist>_

“But you _could_ fly the whole thing on your own!”

“Chuck?” Mike nudges his shoulder. “You, uh…you wanna catch us up here, buddy?”

“He’s just—” Chuck gestures abstractedly for a second, trying to translate the half-data, half-words conversation into English. “—He’s saying that since I’ve been here longer, he’s…he says I’m his…superior officer? That I take care of the ship, so she should…I’m the navigator. Not him.”

ROTH whirs and nods.

“But he’s an _android,_ ” says Chuck, “You guys can—y’know— _actually_ pilot a ship! The way it was made to be piloted.”

_[unit function] <assist/NOT::replace>_

“But you _could_ replace me.”

ROTH puts both hands on Chuck’s shoulders and shakes his head, as serious as the grave.

“I’m with ROTH on this one,” says Mike. Chuck blinks and stares at him—Mike shrugs. “This ship is your baby. Nobody can replace you, dude.”

That’s patently untrue, but also really nice to hear. Chuck ducks his head, grinning self-consciously, and Dutch nods firmly. “Wouldn’t wanna try,” he says. “We just got here, and you guys have got a thing goin’ for you.” He rocks on his heels, looks around at the hold and grins, broad and bright and satisfied. “Aw man, I can’t believe we’re in. This is gonna be _great._ ”

—

They get their first mission four days after the new crew is hired on. It’s four in the afternoon, universal time— _ten PM, Deluxe time,_ Chuck’s brain automatically murmurs to him, no matter how many times he tries to ignore it. Everybody has retreated to their area of the ship to cool down before dinner. Chuck is sitting on the bridge, feet up, playing a logic game absently with his eyes closed, when ROTH comes hurrying in.

_[ship status] <contact/unknown>[alert]_

“A what?” Chuck sits up, startled. “Nobody _calls_ us, who—?”

He’s slower than ROTH, but he’s opened up comms a thousand times and it only takes a flick of his hand. Chuck scans the screen, scans it again—collapses back with a half-laugh of relief.

 _[unit status: CHUCK] <familiar/okay>[query] _ ROTH asks, and Chuck nods and waves a hand, letting the pended call through.

“— _Get this darn thing to—_ eyy, _there he is!”_

“Jacob!” Chuck brushes his hair back to grin. “Dude, it’s been forever!”

“ _Well maybe if you kids would call some time,_ ” Jacob grouses, but he’s smiling. “ _You look skinny. You eatin’ enough out there?_ ”

 _[new unit:status unknown] <JACOB>_ , says ROTH, and glances at Chuck, almost uncertainly. Chuck nods and beckons, and ROTH edges forward into the shot and waves cautiously. Jacob blinks at him, then back at Chuck with an almost ludicrous expression of cantankerous confusion. Chuck snorts.

“This is ROTH,” he says. “ROTH, this is Jacob. He finds us jobs.”

“ _And makes sure you’re takin’ care of yerselves,”_ Jacob contributes. “ _Somebody’s gotta. You kids are rich enough for an android, now?_ ”

“We picked up some new—”

“Jacob!” Mike comes running across the bridge and drops into Chuck’s chair next to him, pinning him up against the side of the seat and grinning at the comm screen. Chuck shoves at him half-heartedly, and then resigns himself to his fate as Mike throws an arm around his shoulders. “Jacob, we got some more crew! Here—here look. Guys, come meet Jacob!”

Their first mission is a pretty simple one—a salvage mission, the leftovers of a KaneCom terraformer that somebody lost control of and crashed into an asteroid belt. It would have been a couple days’ work for Mike and Chuck by themselves—it’s almost underwhelming now that they’re a solid crew of five.

“ _I’m gonna have to start looking for bigger game,_ ” Jacob says, and sizes up the gathered crew, nodding thoughtfully. “ _You think you could take on a bot factory?_ ”

“Uhh,” starts Chuck, but Mike is already nodding enthusiastically and Texas is whooping in gleeful anticipation. Dutch has that set, sharp look in his eyes he had when he introduced himself— _if Kane wants trouble, he can have it._ Chuck and Julie trade a glance over Mike’s head and wince at each other.

“ _I’ll keep an eye out for soft spots,_ ” Jacob promises. “ _Go hunt down that boat. Keep some of the food on there for yourself, why don’tcha? You got a lot of mouths to feed now._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go.


	2. 1 - Disastrous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crew's one-year-anniversary mission goes disastrously wrong; their one-year-anniversary afterparty goes, if possible, even worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stranger danger in this one, y'all, but I'll go ahead and spoil this one and say it does turn out okay, even if nobody involved enjoys the experience.

The planet they’ve landed on is terraformed, but the sun is only out for four hours a day and the streets outside are dim with the last traces of sunshine. In the distant, towering buildings of the capitol city, a pale spire stretches up into the sunset light. The holographic block around it shines red; a silent, looming reminder of the Kane Combine’s presence on this planet.

In the shipyard on the edge of the city, under the wing of their ship, the crew of the Burner sit around an old heating coil and go over the plan.

"So," says Texas. "Are we gonna get to fight, though?"

"No," says Julie. "Not unless we have to. You _want_ a firefight?"

"No," says Texas, a little bit guiltily. "I mean, cha, sure, maybe. Texas is good at butt-kickin', that's all."

"I know you are, Tex," says Mike, and pulls his pocket knife out, tests the edge, flicks the plasma cutter on and off again and then holsters it in his boot, satisfied. "If it turns out that bad, it's gonna be great to have you on our side."

"But it shouldn't," Dutch says. "Right? In and out, clear by nine."

"2100 is if we’re on schedule,” Mike says, and flicks his gun open to check the cartridge. He hardly uses it—he makes a pleased noise at the sight of the almost-full gauge and snaps it shut again. “But we want _ahead_ of schedule, remember?”

“Yeah, okay,” says Julie, watching with faint bemusement as Mike piles tools into his bag. “But…remind us again why it’s so important we get done early?”

“Because we’re going out tonight!” Mike grins. “It’s our one-year anniversary. Of you guys joining, I mean. You’ve been with us a year.”

"Seriously?" Dutch laughs. "Feels like it's been about a week."

"Feels like it's been a century," Julie says, and laughs as Mike presses a hand to his chest, mock-wounded. "Okay. So, where are we hitting? Somewhere good?"

The mission is simple, server infiltration and intel theft. Their tip-off says that Kane just sent a drive full of information to their server, under heavily-armed guard. There's no word on what's in it, but the guards are still on-planet, patrolling the city. Security is tight enough, there has to be something nice in the middle of it.

Julie's body stays on the ship; her mind is back on Deluxe, halfway across the galaxy, running interference, sending information. Dutch has mocked up copies of her solid-light projection system; Mike takes the lead as they slip through the streets, wearing the shape of a couple of KaneCom troopers. Once, somebody stops them—Chuck is about two seconds from panicking and pulling out his weapons system, but Mike just strolls up and salutes the head of the other squad casually. A couple of seconds later he's laughing with the guy, joking about some training exercise Chuck's never heard of.

It's a pretty simple mission. It really, really is. But there’s no mission so simple it can’t all go to hell in the space of less than a minute.

The Burner’s crew make it up six floors and Chuck is just starting to poke around in their server mainframe when he happens to glance at a security camera feed. He’s just in time to see a man in KaneCom riot gear aim a gun up at the security camera, take a shot and knock out the feed. And where there’s one KaneCom Elite, there’s always more, and _god,_ Chuck knew the guy who gave them the tip was bad news, _dammit!_

He has just enough time to make a fast group call, scrambling to arm his weapons system, and then there are bullets and plasma charges ricocheting off the walls around him and everything after that is a hot, confusing blur. There’s something big buried in their file system, a new upload with multiple layers of protection; Dutch tips over a desk and lays down suppressive fire on the door, and Chuck puts his head down and tries desperately to focus.

Finally— _finally_ —with a _click_ he can almost hear, the file breaks open. Chuck starts it downloading, opens it behind his eyes, and then curses under his breath--  Of course, just his luck, it's some kind of video file.  Chuck starts it downloading, turns up the video speed and dials his comprehension rate up.  Time warps like melting plastic, a weird, half-painful disconnect in his brain as his implants artificially dilate the time for him. He waits an anxious ten milliseconds as it initializes, hearing the slow-motion sounds of combat echo around the room, and then flinches in shock as a familiar face flickers into life inside his head.

“ _Hello, pirate scum,”_ says Abraham Kane genially. " _If you're watching this, you've gone blundering straight into my hands. I'm assuming you work for Mike Chilton—you're going to regret that choice for the rest of your short, miserable life. My men are going to bring you back to Deluxe, and I'm going to use every tool in my—_ "

Chuck shuts the video down, slams back into realtime so sharply he staggers. Dutch is still firing, but guns aren't his specialty and there's already an empty cartridge lying smoking by his knees. "Chuck, are you hearin' me?!" he's saying as Chuck stares around, struggling to recalibrate to realtime.  "We gotta—" And then he yells in pain as a laser blast clips his shoulder, spinning him back off his feet and splattering the floor with steaming blood.

Chuck makes a terrible noise and pulls his implants so fast it hurts, firing off a wild shot.  The man he’s aiming at flies back through the door with a familiar sizzling _BOOM_. By the sound of it, the guy goes flying down the stairs outside, a couple of nasty thuds and people yelling, but Chuck doesn’t have time to listen. “Kane set us up!” he gasps into his comm, and swallows hard, tries to keep the panic from cracking his voice. “Dutch is down, the tip was a fake, we need that extraction _yesterday_!”

“ _Down?_ ” Julie sounds deadly calm over the backdrop of Texas yelling. “ _What do you mean, ‘down’?”_

“Grazed my shoulder,” Dutch grits out, and grunts in pain as he tries to sit up, holding a hand to the spreading scarlet on his shirt. “I’m—fine. Got careless…”

Another man in Kane Combine white and blue ducks around the door with his gun out. Chuck ducks the first shot, grabs Dutch and diverts full power to his left arm to bodily throw him out of the line of fire. The second shot grazes his cheek, but his combat programming is running at full capacity and his body takes the pain without flinching. Chuck sights carefully, fires off a shot and catches the guy right in the shoulder. He’s not going to be using his gun arm any time soon.

The next guy in the doorway startles at the sight of him, the glowing eyes and the burning, venting scars on his arms, and Chuck ignores the staring and fires off another shot.  Another perfect hit.  The KaneCom soldier crumples over, making terrible, wet noises of pain and shock.  They'll put him back together on Deluxe, but he's not going to be firing many guns for Kane's army after this.  Not going to be doing much that involves fingers, period.  Chuck's combat protocols process that knowledge as a fact, cold and true, and reward him with a rush of foreign satisfaction.  _87% guaranteed effective hit: target eliminated._   His gut gives a distracting, awful lurch, but it's hard to care about the weird, unnecessary reactions of the organic parts of his body when his implants are running this hot.

“ _Extraction_ ,” Chuck snaps into his comm, high and tight and harsh.  “NOW!”

“ _I’m on my way up,_ ” says Mike. “ _Hold on! You’re gonna be okay!”_

—

Chuck is about 24% okay.

Not because he got injured, although he did get a laser burn on his side and one bicep, which stings like a _bitch_. Not because the mission was a colossal failure, although that…that’s not great, that sucks pretty bad.

It was definitely his fault.

He tries to ignore the thought as Mike looks everybody over and laughs the whole mess off, _we’ll get ‘em next time! Just glad everybody made it outta there!_ But it’s not like Chuck's usual irrational self-hatred. This self-hatred is fully justified, and rational reasoning only makes it worse. Chuck wasn’t watching the cameras. He didn’t crack that file fast enough. He got distracted by Dutch taking the bullet for him, and he didn’t even go digging for anything else useful on the server. He let himself get played like an idiot, and Dutch and all the other members of the crew paid the price for it.

And to add insult to injury, Kane apparently had somebody stick a nasty virus on his video message. If Chuck had downloaded straight to the ship (straight to ROTH, god, at least he didn’t fuck up _that_ bad) it would be sending out junk and _come-get-me_ signals in every direction. But he didn’t, and instead it’s just giving him a nasty, throbbing migraine.

He doesn’t say any of this out loud, though, because Mike is bound and determined that this isn’t going to ruin their night, or their one-year-anniversary night out. Chuck’s already screwed enough stuff up today, he’s not gonna mess this up too. Even if he does spend the entire flight out to planet's closest orbiting entertainment station morosely picking at the virus and trying to ignore the weird, drifting halos of light in his peripheral vision.

The virus—and the headache that came with it—are slightly abated by the time they get to a bar just seedy enough they probably won’t get reported. The moroseness definitely remains.

"Come on, buddy," Mike says bracingly, and shakes his shoulders gently. "We checked this place out before we went, you're not gonna get stopped at the door or anything. It's gonna be a good night!"

"...Uh-huh," Chuck mumbles.

"It's gonna be a good night," Mike repeats, confidently. "Trust me."

—

Mike is 100% okay!

Seriously, he is. Well, maybe, like...something close to a hundred, but not quite there. He's like 90% okay. His crew is okay, which means a lot! Nobody is hurt all that bad, and Dutch's arm will heal up within a week. But Chuck looks freakin' miserable, and he keeps rubbing his temples and flashing his eyes like he's got one of his nasty headaches. He doesn't look happy about going out, either, which sucks because he was the one who picked out the bar, who reminded Mike it'd been a year, who basically planned this whole thing.

"Come on, buddy," he says as they head down the station, and drops an arm around his best friend's shoulders. "...we checked this place out before we went, they're not gonna stop you at the door or anything."

Chuck looks miserably unconvinced.

"It's gonna be a good night!"

Chuck opens his mouth, takes a breath like he's about to say something—closes it again. "...Mmhm," he says half-heartedly, and gives Mike the least convincing smile Mike's ever seen him fake.

"It's gonna be a good night," Mike says again, and pats his back again before he lets Chuck pull away. "Trust me, dude!"

Chuck seems to be doing a bit better for a second or two, but then as soon as they get into the bar he splits off from the rest of the crew. He finds a corner and slumps miserably down in it; Mike almost goes after him, but then Texas grabs him and goes "Hey, shots!" and Mike loses sight of him.

He'll go find him in a minute. It's gonna be a good night. Mike takes a shot—

—

It's a good night! Texas got distracted after a couple of shots, which is good because Mike's boasting about how he could out-drink Texas was pretty much just bravado. Julie is talking to a really pretty lady in a slinky dress, although Mike notices through the faint haze that she's put a hologram of a wedding ring on her finger—so apparently she's not interested. Dutch is doing what he always does at bars, which is put his head down and drink his drinks really fast, grimacing after every gulp. Chuck is still sitting in the corner, but now he's got a glass of something multi-colored and bubbly in front of him, which he's moping over and occasionally sipping on. Mike should go over and talk to him, maybe buy him a drink. There are some funny lines he heard a guy down the bar using, Chuck would probably like them—

"Hey, tough guy," says a guy in a really tight shirt, and folds his arms so it shows off his pecs as Mike turns around. "...Buy you a drink?"

Mike laughs and shrugs, because why not—free drink! And the guy orders them both something dark and strong—

—

It's a pretty good night. Mike feels pleasantly foggy and unworried, which is a nice change from the constant buzz that seems to be spinning around in his head all the time. But he keeps forgetting what he was gonna do, and it's getting frustrating. The guy who bought him a drink backed off after a while—he definitely looked disappointed, but he was cool with the fact that Mike wasn't interested. That’s always cool, and not always something to take for granted, in places like this. People in this kind of bar, in the un-policed space stations outside any planetary authority--  People sometimes get pushy. Mike's had to pull some people off Chuck before, especially the ones who were being jerks about the cyborg thing. Some people get _ideas_ about that stuff, and—where is Chuck, anyway?

"Hey, cowboy," says Julie behind him. "You're carrying the credits, right? Do a girl a favor."

"Only if you get me one," Mike says, and toasts one year, clinks glasses with something gold and sparkling and throws it back—

—

It's not a great night.

It was a good night, before now. Mike should still be having a good night, except a lady with nails like claws and rhinestones on her eyelashes is buying Chuck his third drink and practically sitting in his lap, and Chuck looked kind of nervous at first but now he's just staring at her as she whispers to him, grinning this big, dazed grin like he's having the time of his life.

It rankles more than it really should, how happy he looks. He wouldn't cheer up for Mike, and Mike really wanted to have a night out for just the crew. And—and that's why he's not happy. He's not _mad,_ Chuck can...take drinks from whoever he wants. But, just, she looks at Chuck like she's about to drag him into her lair and eat him.  Some part of Mike wants him to step in, like he has before when people got handsy, but those times Chuck looked scared and unhappy and kind of pissed off. 

He doesn't look pissed off now.  He's smiling, all flushed and flustered.  And if he's enjoying himself, Mike's not going to drag him away.  He'll just have his night out, and not pay attention to the way she's...stroking Chuck's face, and...sliding a leg between his thighs. Oh.

...Mike can't drag Chuck away, but _he_ can leave. MIke  can get out of here, he doesn't have to do this to himself.  Whatever Chuck does is up to him, and that's fine. If he doesn't wanna be around his crew right now, Mike can be cool, give him space.

Mike stands up, stretches out the tension and the bruises from the mission, and throws one last look over at his crew. At Chuck, pinned against the bar with the lady's claw-like nails tracing his throat. Then he pulls on his coat, and slips out the door to do something stupid.

—

It was a tolerably okay night, when they got here.

It’s still tolerable—a lot of things are tolerable, if you have a high enough tolerance, even though bars have never been Chuck’s thing and he still feels, just _really_ shitty. But a lady who looks like she could tear his throat out with her fingernails has apparently devoted her night to making Chuck as uncomfortable as possible and buying him way too many drinks. Chuck’s head hurts from the virus, and his stomach hurts from the drinks, and his face hurts from trying to force himself to smile, and the night is just kind of getting worse by the second.

The lady grabs the new drinks from the bar and pushes it into his hand. Chuck considers the murky depths of it morosely for a second, then blinks and goes “Uh, thanks.” A little too late and not very enthusiastically. God, is this a shot?  Shots always look bigger when Chuck’s expected to drink them.  Whatever it is, it doesn't look like it's going to taste good at all, unlike the cocktail Chuck was secreting in the corner when this lady apparently decided he looked lonely and needed to have his personal bubble intruded on.

Any distraction is better than what his brain is doing, though. Chuck sighs to himself, makes a half-hearted toast and then tosses the drink back and swallows hard, eyes watering at the burn.

God, and it _really_ burns, too. Whatever this stuff is, it makes his stomach lurch really alarmingly as he throws it down. It burns, more than normal alcohol does—Chuck grimaces at the cup and makes a bleary mental note not to buy whatever _that_ was again. Jeez, his stomach is cramping like he's gonna be sick.

“Long day, sweetheart?”

Chuck swallows hard on the roil in his stomach, and tries to focus on the question. It feels incredibly weird and awkward, having her call him _sweetheart,_ but it's not like she's hurting anything. And he can't really just tell her flat out to go after she bought him all those drinks. He shrugs awkwardly, late and half-hearted.

“Just…same stuff we do every day,” he mumbles. The lady giggles like that's funny somehow, and starts talking to him about something, but Chuck isn't listening.  He kind of tries, but it's really hard to focus, he feels-- _weird._ Drinks always hit him pretty fast--gastric enhancements, faster and more efficient digestion--it's why he was drinking so slow, until now.  But this doesn't feel like being drunk.  The burning in his stomach feels like it's spreading, his skin feels hot and cold and there's a cool sheen of sweat on the back of his neck. Where did Mike go? Chuck was gonna say thanks for saving his ass during the shootout. He’d just come bursting through the door like a goddamn action hero, hoisted Dutch up on his shoulders and gone “ _cover me!_ ”, fierce and lit up on adrenaline—

 _Y’know how you could let him know you’re_ really _grateful,_ says a voice in the back of his mind.

The sudden swell of arousal is startling, intense enough Chuck chokes on air and has an ugly coughing fit. The feeling doesn’t go away though. It seems to be welling up from inside his bones and his burning stomach, bleeding out through his skin and making it tingle and ache, pounding through his heart and veins. It’s a really weird feeling, but as he tries to figure out what’s going on, the lady with the claws reaches out and puts a hand on his face. She trails her nails up the angle of his jaw and traces them feather-light over the shell of one ear and Chuck’s entire body runs hot and cold with shivers. Her lips are painted silver, her skin feels so…soft, and warm...

No, this is weird. This is seriously weird, this is…but it feels really good, but it’s all wrong. Not safe.

“I gotta go.” Chuck pushes himself up weakly. “I don’t feel—” The woman pushes him down again. He should be strong enough to push her off, but everything feels dizzy and blurry. Her grip on his shoulders feels good too, way better than it should.

“But we just started having fun,” the lady purrs, and pushes up in his space. She’s trying to slide a leg between his thighs, which is honestly pretty scary. And even scarier, he kind of wants to let her. It’s hot and it smells good in here. The air makes Chuck's skin feel like it’s burning, like he’s got a fever.  He's smiling, big and dumb, half-laughing at the feeling of her touch, even as anxiety rises sharp and acid in his gut.  “Don’t you wanna go somewhere a little more _private_? You look like you need a little help, and believe me, baby, I know how to make you feel _real_ good…”

Like Mike. Mike makes him feel good. Mike and his square, warm hands, his dark eyes and strong arms, his…shirt stretched tight across his shoulders and chest and riding up his belly as he sleeps…

“Oh my god,” says Chuck, staring at nothing. “…I gotta. My crew. I gotta find Mike.” And then, breathless with realization, “You _drugged_ me!”

“Who?” says the woman, and then “What are you talking about?” But Chuck knows, he can _tell,_ this isn’t _right._ He pushes himself up, staggers and pants for a second before he can get his balance. His clothes feel too hot and too tight all of a sudden, constricting, he just wants to cool down, he should—dammit, _no._

“Back—” Chuck chokes on the words, swallows hard and steadies his voice. “Back. Off.”

“Honey,” the woman starts, placating and enticing, and when she reaches out and touches his face again it’s even worse, even better than it was a few seconds ago. Whatever this stuff is, it’s sinking in fast. Chuck tries to slap her hand away, and the woman steps in too close and slips a hand under the hem of his shirt instead.  When she strokes a knuckle past one hip bone, the startlingly abrupt jolt of longing that hits him almost drops him where he stands. “You should sit down, you must have had too much to—”

“Guys,” says Chuck sharply, loud enough it cuts through the noise, and pushes clumsily back and away, backing down the bar. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Texas put his drink down, distracted from his conversation with the bartender—Julie is looking over too, frowning, confused.

The lady looks from him to the crew, then back again. Then she sighs and pushes herself away.

“ _You’re gonna regret that,_ ” she breathes, and then she turns and she’s vanishing into the crowd. Chuck tries to see where she goes, keep an eye on her, but his head is swimming, he can’t focus. He catches himself leaning back on the bar—pushes himself up with an effort and kind of staggers in the direction of the crew. Everything is burning and buzzing and too much, and not enough.

“What was up with her?” says Texas as Chuck gets closer, and then “…Hey, you good?”

“Where’s Mike?” says Chuck, which isn’t what he meant to say, but— _Mike, warm smiling touching laughing_ he needs Mike for…something, he just needs him.

“Think he went lookin’ for somewhere to spend the night,” says Texas, and downs his drink. “Good call! This station is AWESOME!”

“ _This station_ is a hotspot for trafficking and has basically no law enforcement,” Julie says firmly, and pulls Texas back down by his collar. “If you hadn’t gotten rid of that girl with the claws I was gonna come drag you away, this isn’t a good spot to go anywhere alone with strangers.” She pauses, squinting to get a closer look at Chuck’s face in the dark. “Seriously, are you okay?”

“I, uh…” Chuck blinks hard—his face feels burning hot, the woman’s gone but Julie is right there with big dark eyes and long silky hair and Texas has stripped off down to his tanktop and tattooed arms and…

“Chuck?”

“Hnnnh,” says Chuck, and sits down hard. “Oh.”

“How many drinks did you have?” Dutch is laughing. Dutch’s mouth is moving. Dutch has a really nice mouth. It’s so hot in here. When he stops laughing his lips hang open a little bit and they look really soft. Oh no, oh _shit._ “Hey, you okay?”

“I,” says Chuck. Focuses on putting the words in order. “She must’ve. I think she. Something in the drinks.” He sways on the barstool, has to grip the bar hard to keep himself balanced. “Uhf. ‘S strong.”

“Oh no…” Julie sighs and rubs at her face with one hand ( _one small soft hand one gentle hand—_ ) “Hey. Focus. Can I run an executive command?”

“Uh.” Question, right, he can answer questions. “I’m…yeah.”

“Command: malfunction screen, biological process review.”

Even his upgrades seem to take too long to work. Chuck swallows, licks his lips. His mouth feels so _dry_ all of a sudden. “Uh,” he says again, and squeezes his eyes shut, struggles to translate electric impulses and programmed responses into words. “Uh…f-foreign substance…detected. Unknown. Unknown substance.”

“Similarities to previous encounters?”

“Trace similarities…Terratogenicide. ‘E-Z’. ‘Jumpstart’. Confidential formula 88, Kane Combine laboratories. Confidential formula 19, Kane Combine laboratories.”

“E-Z and Jumpstart are uppers,” Texas contributes from down the bar. He’s watching with mild confusion and interest—a faint trace of disturbed aversion, like every time Chuck does something noticeably wired. “You don’t look _up_. Y’look like you’re about to fall over, like.” He holds up an arm, brings it straight down like a falling tree. “BAM, right out on the floor.”

“We’re going back to the ship,” says Julie abruptly, and reaches out to grab Chuck’s shoulder. The touch sends hot and cold shivers running through his whole body. “If it’s scanning like a Terra drug, it’s trouble. Come on, Chuck.”

“ _Mmmnh_ ,” says Chuck, in an attempt to say something coherent about how he’s pretty sure he’ll stay sitting here, actually. Several people nearby break off conversations to turn around and look at him, eyebrows raised—self-consciousness and anxiety drown out the hot fuzziness for a second. In the sudden wash of embarrassment, Chuck becomes abruptly aware of how loud that noise was and how he’s halfway off his chair and shaking a little bit.

“Don’t worry, little fella,” sighs Texas, and shoulders his way under Chuck’s arm to pull him upright. “We'll figure it out. It's gonna be a good night.”


	3. 2 - Desperate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chuck meets a (probably) handsome, mysterious stranger, and gets swept off his feet, he thinks. He doesn't really know. It's not like he can remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Love's strange, so real in the dark // Think of the tender things that we were working on._   
>  _Slow change may pull us apart // When the light gets into your heart, baby,_   
>  _Don't you // forget about me_
> 
> Don't You (Forget About Me) - Simple Minds

“We’ve got a match.”

It’s crowded with everybody in the medbay, even with Mike still out—the others shove in around Dutch’s shoulders as he flicks his hands and pulls the screen out to float between his fingertips, frowning at it. On it, a chemical compound is building itself, matching to the toxins from Chuck’s blood sample. ROTH has an amorphous fingertip pressed gently to the screen, his good eye flickering and flashing; information pops up on a broad handful of screens, scrolling lists of facts and references.

“It’s a bunch of different drugs,” Dutch says, flicking from window to window. He looks more and more worried, the more he reads. “…I’m not seein’ a single legal one on this list. Look—”

“Oh, hey,” says Texas, leaning over his shoulder, and grabs the screen out of Dutch’s hands. “Yeah, no. ‘S a sex bomb!”

Chuck curls up into a ball and buries his face in his knees with a miserable whine. His face and shoulders are bright, burning red and there’s a bead of sweat trickling slowly down the back of his neck. The happy, bleary fog he was in stopped being fun about three minutes after they got out of the bar and everything started to _throb_. In the ten minute walk back to the ship, things have only gotten worse. Everybody is studiously ignoring the way his weight shifts every few seconds, the heaving of his shoulders and the way his hips rock restlessly against nothing.

“You know this stuff?” Julie says.

“Oh yeah. Pretty shady, but.” Texas crosses his arms, obviously pleased to have everybody’s eyes on him. “Texas eats shady for breakfast!”

“Stop flexing and tell us what’s goin’ on!” Dutch says impatiently, still scanning down the screen. “…Looks like the big problem is this thing they’re just callin’ ‘Root’. Uh…this is all history stuff, ROTH, you got anything about what it does?” He scrolls some more, and grimaces. “…Farming planet…hybrid experiments—no wonder it scanned like Terra—holy crap, this stuff is illegal on more than a hundred planets. They made it to alter _plants_ and then some bright spark tried snorting it with a buncha party drugs and… Wow. Geez.”

“So, not good.” Julie has her arms crossed and her comms open, scowling tersely at her screens and pinging Mike every couple of minutes. She’s been trying to call since they left the bar; if Mike has his comms on, he’s not interested in answering. “I think it’s pretty clear what it does, so, what are we gonna do about it? How long does it last?”

“…Hours.” Dutch glances guiltily up at Chuck. Chuck doesn’t seem to be listening; his hands are on his knees, white-knuckled as he drags in one deep, shaking breath at a time. “Six or seven hours, even if it was just one pill she dropped in there. And you’re not supposed to just let it sit. It’ll do some _messed up_ stuff if you don’t, uh…y’know, if you try to hold out. Like, actual medical side effects, brain stuff, heart stuff, the works.” He minimizes the list he was looking at, mouth twisted with distaste. “Some of the _real_ shady players out here use it to steal people for the black market, ‘cause after you’re dosed up with that stuff and you start losin’ control you…don’t care about much.”

“So we should give the little guy some _alone time_ is what you’re sayin’,” Texas says wisely. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Says right here that’s a bad call—I mean, _six hours,_ and it’s not like you’re thinkin’ about if you get thirsty, or—”

“Fine!” Texas shrugs. “Okay. So go no-strings, raza it.”

“Texas, that’s not funny,” Julie snaps.

“I ain’t _jokin’!_ ” Texas says belligerently. “He’s gotta bang somebody, right, and I mean…you’re cool, skinny, don’t get me wrong, but Texas don’t dig people like that.” He grimaces. “And Dutch and Julie got their own things goin’ on, and Mike—”

Chuck makes a harsh, guttural noise through his teeth, half a moan, half a snarl. For a second, every one of his surgical scars flares bright, blue-white under the flush of his skin, and his eyes burn. Texas stops, looking startled, and then starts again, maybe a touch more carefully.

“All I’m sayin’ is, all you need’s to get off, that’s what raza’s _for._ We don’t gotta know about it, _you_ don’t even gotta know about it. Nobody’s gotta know about it! And you get your stuff sorted out, win-win-win.”

“Yeah, but…” Dutch is still scrolling, looking more and more worried. “I mean…I mean, the pod keeps a connection between…I mean, it’d _work_ , but…”

“They run a cleaner operation than most places he could go,” Julie points out reluctantly, and chews on her lower lip, throws another glance over at Chuck. “And I’ve heard the system keeps an eye on you, gives warnings if you’re…dehydrated, or anything.”

“Yeah, I mean, but…” Dutch grimaces. “There’s gotta be a better—”

“ _Is there one in this station?_ ”

Chuck’s voice is ragged and shaky. Everybody stops, silent, and then turns slowly to look at him.

“Saw one a level down,” says Texas. “Texas’ll get you there if you want.”

“No, I.” Chuck starts to stand up, then staggers and sits heavily back down, breathing hard. “I…yeah. Please.”

He hangs on Texas on the way down, shaking, and Texas (for once) is apparently not interested in making any smart comments. He doesn’t even point it out when Chuck has to stop and scrub at his eyes, struggling not to press any closer, letting out a frustrated noise that’s more a sob than a groan. Texas just pats him roughly on the back a couple of times and then helps him into the bright, clinically-bare entrance to the raza terminal.

“We’ll see you for breakfast, little man,” he says, and then sputters and flails as Chuck dives forward and hugs him. “—Hwa-cha! Oh. Uh…come on, dude. Save it for the—yeah, okay, cool, I mean, it’s whatever. Be cool.”

“Texas—“ Chuck has to stop and breathe for a second—Texas stares at him, looking caught somewhere between wariness and worry. “I…thanks _._ ”

“Oh.” Texas hesitates and then reaches out cautiously and gives him a fleeting squeeze in return. “Well—yeah, no problem. Go on, skinny, get in there!”

—

It’s a good thing he knows what he’s doing here, because as the computer goes through the (agonizingly slow) explanation of how the patented Psycheros Duplicate-Transfer Anonymous Partnership Facilitation System works, Chuck is 100% not listening. The burning ache has sunk into the rest of his body, throbbing and pounding with every heartbeat—keeping his hands at his sides is almost more than he can handle, let alone concentrating and listening.

“... _Or ‘raza’, after the infamous Raza Six…”_ The computer is murmuring calmly, and Chuck grinds his teeth for a second before a sharp twitch of heat runs through him and all of a sudden he can't, he just  _can't_.

“Can you go _—faster?!_ ”

To his surprise, the computer system stops. “Please,” Chuck repeats, encouraged. “Can we just—get it over with? _Hff._ I-I just… _please._ ”

Silence for a second. “ _I am detecting foreign pathogens in your system. Your vital signs indicate pain._ ”

Most of the time the patient logic of computers is comforting. Right now Chuck just groans and slams the heel of one hand into his forehead, trying to ignore the aching need fogging his brain. “Yeah, it’s bad, and I know—I know as long as this body’s ffff—messed up I can’t get away from—  Look, can I just go?! Please—”

“ _I apologize. The Psycheros Corporation’s highest priority is to prevent damage or nonconsensual discomfort._ ” The transfer pod lights up soft white; a flat, solid, table-like block big enough that even Chuck doesn't stretch from end to end of it.  The surface of it is strange and soft, with a slight give to it, glowing cleanly white and smelling faintly of sanitizer.  It's a weird thing to care about right now, but Chuck almost wishes this place was _tackier._ The clean, white, minimalist design is bringing back a lot of memories, and last time somebody laid him out unconscious on a table in a bright, white, empty room, he woke up with a new set of internal organs. 

Well, he's gonna have to suck it up, because it's not like he really has a choice.  Chuck settles gingerly down on the top of the pod, pressing his hands to the surface, trying to distract himself with the weird texture of the polymer and its strange, gentle warmth.  It makes sense-- _god,_ he  _hurts--_   People are going to be lying in the pod for however long their session is, and their mind may be projecting into a new, printed body but their original body doesn't really have a way of knowing that.  _Fuck._ It's actually really interesting stuff, and Chuck would kind of love to look at this equipment some time when he doesn't feel like he wants to tear his skin off to make the throbbing stop.

“ _How many partners would you prefer?_ ” says the computer, and Chuck is abruptly distracted.  For a second, the idea of—of a room full of hands, of so many people touching him—god, he would probably be on the ground if he wasn’t sitting on the side of the transfer pod already.  He gapes at nothing for a solid three seconds, and then shakes himself awake as a stab of anxiety cuts through even the persistent ache of the drug. Shit, no. More people seeing him naked is definitely not a good thing. More people being around just makes things more complicated, adds variables, makes it more likely one of them will flat-out not like him. Matching algorithms can only do so much.

“Just one,” he says, late and shaky. The computer chimes softly.

“ _Gender or sex preference?_ ”

“I—I don’t care, I— _please—_ ” The word breaks coming out of his mouth, a pathetic whimper of a thing.

“ _The system will attempt to match the gender of your imagined partner,_ ” the computer says. “ _Your preference has been logged.  Do you have a preferred safeword you would like to log_ _?_ ”

“Am—will—is that gonna—” His teeth are chattering, god. He started stripping as soon as the door closed and the computer started talking, but he wasn’t expecting a stupid— _tutorial,_ and it’s cool in here and his skin is flushed and still prickling with sweat. Some part of him is embarrassed to be naked, even in an empty, sealed room, but that part of him is getting quieter and quieter as the drug ties his guts in a knot. “I mean, d-do you think I’m gonna need…?”

“ _Your safety is important to us,_ ” says the computer.  “ _In cases where you may not be fully capable of consenting during the proceedings, it is protocol to—_ ”

“I don’t have a—I’ve never needed _nnnh_ —” God, it _hurts._ “I’m consenting, okay, I’m definitely consenting I _ahh_ —please just—just copy me already, I can’t—”

“ _Of course,_ ” says the computer. “ _The system default safeword is ‘red’. Please lie down, focus on your current ideal sexual partner, and relax.”_

 _—_

.

**Session 1**

.

_—_

Chuck wakes up and he hurts all over like he’s been hit by a train. A couple of trains, five or six trains, but the most awesome-feeling trains ever. He’s exactly where he was a second ago, the soft white glow of a transfer pod, under a broad, transparent cover that kind of makes him feel like leftovers being heated up in the microwave.  It almost feels like he just blinked, fell asleep for a second and then woke up, but he also feels totally different than he did a second ago.  Everything aches, for one thing; his skin is oversensitive and shivery and stinging, but the pain is so soft and shivery it feels almost like pleasure.  There’s water misting down over him as he drifts back to himself, comfortably cool.

Chuck lies there, staring hazily up at nothing as the water washes slowly over his sweaty skin. Soft jets of air follows as soon as the water stops, dry and warm enough he barely even shivers. Then there’s a faint _ding,_ a hum, and the pod opens again.

The room is exactly like it was when he lay down. Chuck swings his legs carefully over the side of the pod and sits up, groaning as his core muscles ache sharply and barely support his weight. When he tries to stand up, his legs are a wobbly mess and his hearing immediately goes fuzzy and distant.

_"You should sit down.”_

It’s the computer. Chuck blinks a few times, then finally the words process over the sound of his heartbeat thundering in his ears. He staggers back and sits back down on the side of the transfer pod, shaking his head slowly, trying to clear it.

“ _Your session was considerably longer than the mean session time,_ ” says the computer, blasé and informative. “ _You are lucky your partner encouraged breaks and hydration, or damage might have occurred._ ”

“It...ran long?” Chuck frowns. “What time is it?”

 _“The time is now 0844, station time,_ ” says the computer. _“Universal Standard Time 1438. Your session total was seven hours and thirteen minutes.”_

Chuck chokes on his spit. “I— _what_?”

“ _Seven hours,_ ” repeats the computer dutifully, _“And thirteen minutes. 433 minutes in total.”_

“I— _how_?!”

The computer is silent for a long second. “… _I do not understand the query_. _Please rephrase._ ”

“Okay, I—look, I don’t know if you noticed, I’m not exactly—I don’t have—I’m not in great shape, okay.”

“ _I have no metric for shape-based judgment,_ ” says the computer.

“Yeah, or you’re programmed not to tell people what _metrics_ you’ve got for them,” says Chuck, and then waves the point away. “But seriously, I couldn’t—I’m not physically capable of…exerting myself. For that long. Even my upgrades—” God, his calorie debt has to be insane, what the hell. Chuck takes a deep breath, rakes his hair back out of his eyes and goes on, as calmly as he can. “…I know you can’t tell me what happened, but…I can’t have just spent the last seven hours having sex, okay? I literally can’t have, I would have died.”

“ _Humans in sexual situations often surpass their expected physical limitations by startling margins,_ " says the computer, and then, " _You did not die._ ”

“Well… _Yeah_ , I kinda noticed.” Chuck shifts and winces—an overworked throb of pain shoots through his core, along with a last, lingering edge of sharp, sweet heat that makes him gasp. “ _Ah,_ hff. Wow.”

“ _You did show below-average responsiveness for the last few hours,_ ” the computer allows. “ _You were flagged for possible compromise of consent, but evidence suggested you were maintaining consciousness and willingly participating.”_

 _“_ I, oh,” says Chuck weakly. Well, that scans at least. He was pretty well exhausted even before the whole "drugged drink, impromptu sex-madness" thing. He’s surprised he _didn’t_ just pass out halfway through.  _Seven hours._ God.  “G-good, I…guess. How much did the bill…?”

“ _There will be no additional charge,_ ” says the computer.

“What?” Chuck blinks, pulls up a line inside his head—sure enough, the only transfer he has a record of is the first transfer right before he went in. “But I thought you said—I didn’t pay for _seven hours_ before I went in!”

“ _No,_ ” says the computer. _“Your partner paid the additional cost._ ”

“Seven hours,” Chuck repeats, and drops back on the transfer pod, staring up at the blank ceiling. “… _Fuck_. How—what did we even— _seven_ hours?”

“ _Yes,_ ” says the computer, unperturbed. _“I cannot offer specific details, but I can offer a general statistical analysis. There is a full total of org—_ ”

“No?!” says Chuck, mortified, and tries to push himself up and walk out.  What happens instead is a kind of foggy humming behind his eyes, and then he's sitting back down again, legs trembling.  "No, okay, no, do  _not,_ no stats, thanks!  I don't even wanna think about--I mean, the way I was, I must've been..."  Just thinking about it is sending a hot flush of humiliation washing over him.  "...God, they came here for a night out and instead they get this crazy asshole high on party drugs and gagging for it like some kind of--”

“ _Please moderate your choice of words,"_ the computer says, still quiet and even but very deliberate, cutting him off.  " _Your partner rated their session highly, and implied no judgment on the topic of your sexuality.  Their only expressed concern was for your health and safety."_ And then, and he could swear he hears disapproval in its cool, flat voice, "... _The Psycheros organization rejects sexual shaming terms when used in a non-consensually degrading manner._ ”

“What? I was talking about me, not them.”

“ _The language was used in a degrading manner._ ”

“Was it...was it  _bad_ , though?”

“ _I cannot retrieve that data._ ”

“You don’t have to," says Chuck, and drops his face into his hands, nails digging into his forehead.  "I know how fucking—  How I must have acted. God I would’ve done _anything_ , how _pathetic_ was it when I—”

“ _Sexual desire_ _is a normal function of the majority of humans,_ ” says the computer. “ _The only logically objectionable factor in this session was your impaired consent, which was not your choice.  Sexual policing is not applicable or encouraged._ ”

There's a moment of silence.  Chuck lowers his hands from his face, totally distracted from his own humiliation, and stares up at the ceiling instead.  

"...Was that an opinion?"

There's the most minuscule of pauses.  " _Invalid inquiry."_

"It was!"  Chuck can't help the grin spreading across his face, fascinated and delighted despite his exhaustion.  "You're pure AI, and you're figuring out moral opinions?  How long did you take to work that out?"

The computer is silent for a long moment.  “ _The makers of the Psycheros partnership facilitation network have not considered it necessary to rewrite their network’s governing system.”_

“What—not since they made it?” Chuck whistles. “You’ve been around a _while_ then, huh?  God, that's so cool.  Uh, but you should probably rein that in, just a little bit.  It'd suck if somebody reported you after you've spent so much time figuring out who you are and what you think.”

“ _…‘Who I am’._ ” The computer legitimately sounds amused now—the widened vowels, the hint of a laugh, like it’s seen and heard hundreds of people smiling. “… _You have a very strange relationship with technology, anonymous user."_

"Chuck," says Chuck.

" _Preference logged,_ " says the computer.  " _There is no cause for concern, Chuck._ _Most customers find it unnecessary to communicate with me beyond basic commands._ ”

"Their loss," says Chuck, and drops back to lie sideways across the pod, taking a deep breath. “…Nnnh.  That's so cool.  Oh man.  _Ow_.”

“ _You are required to evacuate the terminal within the next ten minutes,_ ” the computer says, and by the end of the sentence its voice is back to its perfect, flat computer tone. “ _Your recommendation has been logged._ ”

“Yeah, nice.” Chuck groans and forces himself to roll over—god, that hurts so good. There must still be traces of the drug in his body, but it’s _nothing_ compared to how he felt a couple of minutes ago. Or…eight hours ago. God, that’s so weird. It feels like it just happened, but there’s a big empty chunk in his chronometric system and he’s…definitely not like he was before. He thought he was gonna die, he needed somebody to touch him _so badly_.

“ _You may notice a temporary decrease in your ability to maintain short-term memory,_ ” the computer is saying overhead. “ _This should not persist beyond two hours after a session. Please ensure you eat and drink appropriately following your session. The Psycheros Corporation takes no responsibility for exhaustion or physical effects outside of partnership sessions."_ And then, as Chuck is struggling to sit up again, staring blearily around the room, “ _Your clothes are in the locker, and your partner’s untraceable line can be found logged to your personal network ID._ ”

It takes Chuck a long second, blinking sleepily, to parse that one. Then, finally, the words click. “I—gave them my number?”

 _“If you like._ ”

Chuck blinks, pulls up the connection in his head—and there it is. A new number, just titled “ _UT”._ A dead spot, no connection his brain can follow back to a source. And on his end, there’s a single message waiting.

_?: message me next time u land??_

Holy shit he wasn’t imagining it. Whoever he ended up with, they actually want to get back together.

_C: god yes. I feel_

_C: amazing._

A moment of silence. Chuck sits still and jitters, staring at his screen, waiting.

_?: comp said I paid for xtra sessions_

_?: u were drunk or s/thing??_

Oh, shit. Chuck chews his lip for a second, and then just as he’s raising his hands to the keyboard another message blips up.

_?: dont remember but sounds like u were rly messed up_

_?: take care of urself k??_

_?: lmk if anybody gives you trouble on the way back to your place, ill fly over and kick their butt for you._

A tight little stupidly-delighted shiver runs up Chuck’s spine, even as his brain kicks in to remind him,

_C: that’s real nice but we could be on the other side of the galaxy. Don’t think your crew would appreciate it._

_C: I won’t be taking drinks from strangers any more though._

_?: yeah_

_?: stay safe out there, see u when I see u_

_C: you too._

The conversation closes. Chuck stands up slowly, groaning as his abs and his leg muscles strenuously object, and reaches over with an arm that feels like lead to pick up his crumpled clothes from their neat locker.

“So,” he says into the silence. “So, did they…” He has to stop and chew on his lip to keep a stupid grin from growing on his face, and he bends down abruptly and pulls his jeans on like there’s somebody in the room with him he has to hide his smile from. “They really liked me?”

“ _Yes,_ ” says the computer, flat and certain. “ _Your partner expressed enjoyment and admiration repeatedly. Phrasing included;_ ‘beautiful’, ‘hot’, ‘sexy’, ‘amazing’, ‘loud’, ‘tigh—‘”

“ _Jesus_ —no, stop!” Chuck waves a hand frantically at nothing, buries his face in his rumpled shirt like he can cool down the fiery blush on his cheeks. He—can’t think about that, geez, can’t handle that at all what the hell—but he can’t help being curious, and his brain turns the information over anyway. “They said—  So—  Wait. Did I get a guy?”

The computer is silent for just a _millisecond_ longer than normal. “… _That information is confidential._ ”

“But I did, didn’t I?” Oh _god_ and Chuck knows who his brain would’ve gone to. From the minute he took that stupid drink, his mind had been running endlessly back to Mike.

His brain chooses this moment to throw up a snapshot of a faceless, broad-shouldered man with brown hair like Mike’s, pushing him down on a bed and—

“I got a guy,” he says, more certain this time. “I mean, I’m. I’m not…choosy, about that. But I know, uh, how my brain works.”

“ _You are free to make whatever assumptions you believe are reasonable,”_ says the computer. _“Your mental image was very specific. A partner with an extremely high level of compatibility was located for you. That is all I am at liberty to say.”_

So. So, he…was thinking about Mike, okay, there’s no point lying to himself about it. He was thinking about Mike, and the computer found somebody who was…as like him as anybody could be.

Chuck doesn’t know if that makes it a little bit better or way worse.

“ _They were extremely complimentary of your performance._ ”

“…I gotta get out of here,” says Chuck.

“ _Would you like a piece of advice first?_ ”

The words are so unexpected, it stops Chuck in his tracks. “Advice?”

“ _Algorithm compatibility does not guarantee a successful session,_ ” the computer says. _“But your match was highly compatible with your imagined ideal, and your session went as smoothly as any session I have observed._ ”

Chuck finds that honestly hard to believe, but it’s…nice to hear. “Yeah, well,” he says. “So?”

“ _Well, I’m only a computer,_ ” says the computer, and god, Chuck could really dig into syntax with this thing. That sounds _exactly_ like a human voice. “ _But my statistical data set is very large. You have your partner’s contact line. Find them again._ ”

—

It’s a long walk back up to the ship. The station is just as bustling and sleepless now as it was seven hours ago, but nobody bothers him as he wanders home in his rumpled clothes, head down. When he gets back to the ship and lays a hand on her side, the door creaks open and ROTH is standing in the cargo bay, regarding him quizzically with his single eye. He cocks his head on one side and chirps inquisitively.

“ _Awful_ ,” says Chuck, and limps in past him. “—I mean, not as bad as I could feel, I guess.”

ROTH sends a query— _[unit status: CHUCK] <physical status=awful> <priority: emotional status=?>[query] _

“I'm okay.”

ROTH cocks his head on one side and crosses the weird bio-organic growths where his arms are supposed to be. The gesture is alarmingly full of personality, and intensely reminiscent of the way Dutch watches people when he’s ticked. _Don’t try to tell your human untruths at me._

Chuck groans.

“I—okay, fine! I hurt all over, and—and Mike wasn’t there, last night, when I needed him. And I met a great guy, probably, and I don’t even remember what his face looked like!  So…I feel like shit _._ Happy now?”

ROTH reaches out and carefully pats Chuck’s cheeks. Chuck sighs and slumps.

“…I bet he was great _._ ”

ROTH nods sympathetically, puts a hand on his shoulder and leads him on into the ship, toward the smell of breakfast.

“Holy crap,” says Dutch, when Chuck limps in, leaning on ROTH’s comfortingly immovable shoulder. “You’re alive! We were gonna give you another hour and then we were going after you.” And then, looking him over, “…You look awful.”

“Mm.” Chuck settles down into a chair carefully, wincing as every muscle protests, and immediately drops his head forward onto the table. “Nngh.”

“Is that Chuck?” Julie pokes her head in. Her hair is up and she’s wearing one of Mike’s old cut-up T-shirts over a sweaty sports bra—she must have been training with Texas again. “You look like you got airlocked and then thawed out in an engine block. Are you okay?”

ROTH chirps. _[suggestion: course of action] <nutrition/organic/recharge >_, Chuck interprets a second late, squinting at the effort of understanding the digital input. God, it’s so much harder when he’s tired. But that sounds _amazing._ “Totally,” he says gratefully. “Please.”

ROTH vanishes into the next room over, where most of the food-smell is coming from. A few seconds later he’s striding back out again, holding five plates of food on various branches of his arms. It’s not even protein bars and nutrition packs—Julie and Dutch must have decided it was worth it to splurge and there are real, _actual_ eggs and _bacon_. Chuck pushes himself up and attacks his plate with a will, wolfing down eggs and meat and reconstituted orange juice. ROTH whirrs and pats his back, then goes around the table and sets out plates for everybody else as well, making sure everybody is scooted in, offering salt and pepper and more glasses of juice.

“This looks amazing,” says Julie gratefully, and glances down the table at the only empty place. “Dibs on Mike’s stuff.”

Chuck blinks, and then looks down the table too—the place is empty. He swallows a huge bite of food, eyes watering. “Mike’s not back?”

“Tiny’s got stuff he’s gotta do,” Texas says wisely. “People to see, y’know.”

“Yeah, but…”

 _[unit status: captain::MIKE] <proximity/docking>, _ ROTH sends, and a second later there’s the distant, grinding sound of the bay doors opening. < _nutrition/organic/recharge >_ and he puts Mike’s plate carefully down at his place and hurries off in Mike’s direction, brows furrowed with determination above his mask.

“—Aaaaand he’s back.” Dutch sits back. “If you’re gonna steal some of his bacon you should steal it now.”

Mike comes clattering into the cabin, grinning as ROTH pats him down and straightens his jacket for him. “I heard there was breakfast!” he says, and smiles around at the rest of his crew. “Hey, guys.”

“You okay, cowboy?” Julie sounds amused—Mike looks tousled and tired and thoroughly worked over but much more cheerful than he did last night. “Looks like somebody had a wild night.”

“Yeah!” Mike sits down and sighs, finger-combing his hair into some kind of order and pulling the food in front of him. “Mm, thanks. Just needed some fresh air, ended up like an hour’s walk away from the ship and just found somewhere to stay for the night. I guess you guys didn’t burn anything down while I was gone, huh?”

“Well if we get banned from _every_ terminal, how is Texas ever gonna get muscle mulch?” Dutch snorts. “ROTH, we got everybody here. You got the numbers for the jump?”

ROTH blinks his single eye, taking on that focused, distant look just for a second of an android whose mind is literally elsewhere. Outside the ship, there’s a thud and a low rumble as the engines kick in and the ship starts her ascent.

“So.” Texas sits back and kicks his feet up as the FTL drive thrums online. “How was raza?”

Chuck spits out his drink. Mike drops his fork.

“Actually yeah, I mean, how was it?” Dutch looks interested and embarrassed to ask in equal measures. “Did it work? I heard their memory-tech is off the _charts._ ”

“It was— _fine,_ ” Chuck says, and hides his face in his hands as Texas guffaws. “It worked, okay?!”

“We should have found you an antidote instead,” Julie frets, and Mike stares around the table with his mouth hanging open. “You hear horror stories, y’know?”

“Nature’s got his antidote!” Texas says, with boisterous abandon, and smacks Chuck hard on the back. Chuck yelps and barely avoids face-planting into his food. “Why pay a couple hundred bars when you could just pay a handful and you get to—”

“You did _what_?” Mike sounds flabbergasted, which is not a word that any of the crew has ever had cause to apply to him before. “Why?!”

“Our good buddy here got hisself _free drinks_ at the bar last night,” Texas volunteers, before anybody else can speak up. “Texas woulda noticed there was somethin’ fishy in there, but hey. That’s Texas. Come on, whaddya remember?!”

“Leave him alone, Tex,” says Julie, who is obviously paying more attention than Texas to the beet red of Chuck’s face and the openly stunned look on Mike’s. “It’s not like he went because he wanted to.”

“You got _drugged_?” Mike’s eyes widen. “Dammit. Dammit! I should’ve known. That lady with the claws was all over you.”

“So, raza,” says Texas, like a mathematician presenting his proof, and sits back. “—‘Cause you don’t just _sleep off_ a sex bomb. Come on, what happened? Cough it up, little man.”

“I don’t remember.”

Texas groans. “Cop-out.”

“That’s the whole _point_ of those places,” Dutch points out. “If he did remember that’d mean there was somethin’ _wrong._ Sit down and eat already.”

“Who’d you get?”

“Uh…”

“Y’know, who did you—?”

“Guys,” Mike interrupts, looking slightly pained. “Come on. Dinner table.”

“Sorry _mom_ ,” Texas grumbles, and Julie giggles. Mike goes just slightly pink around the ears and rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling too.

Everybody mostly leaves Chuck alone after that—partly because Mike makes pained faces whenever somebody starts to ask and partly because Chuck is obviously not in any mood for conversation. The station they were on is one of the aggravating stops where local time doesn’t match up with universal time, and just a couple of hours after breakfast it’s seven PM in universal time and the ship’s computer is dimming the lights for bed. Julie vanishes back to her transfer pod to go back to Deluxe for the night, and Chuck limps up to the deserted bridge and settles down into his chair in the middle of his familiar navigation display.

Since ROTH arrived with Dutch, Chuck hasn’t really needed to check their FTL course before bed, but it’s been a habit for so long he does it anyway. He runs his fingertips slowly over the touch-screens he doesn’t really need, feeling them fizz under his touch, then he leans back in the padded seat and sinks into the network.

ROTH is already there, like he always seems to be, making minute, sparking adjustments and glittering, sweeping changes. His presence flickers around the ship’s net, monitoring processes and making edits faster than Chuck can comprehend.  As Chuck settles into the ship, ROTH’s awareness turns toward him in a coded flare of _< welcome/affection> _and Chuck feels his body smile somewhere far away.

_Just checking in for the night. You know I like to have my hands in your infinitely-superior coding, just so I can tell the others I helped._

ROTH is coming up to the deck. Chuck watches him walk past a security cam by the doors. Hears the doors to the bridge open behind him as if they’re a million miles away.

< _assistance/education >[query]_

 _No,_ he thinks back, and he’s so, so tired all of a sudden. _No lesson tonight, okay bud? I’m…my power’s drained. I’m dead in the water._

 _[unit status] <concern/reassure/comfort>_ somewhere, ROTH’s physical body pats his forehead with one appendage. _[unit status]_ < _capable/willing/helpful/flight-worthy > _

_I know, I know. You’ll keep us in the sky._ Chuck sighs, far away. _Can you turn off my alarm tomorrow? Let them know I need to rest._

 _[unit status]_ < _capable/willing/helpful/concerned >_

_Yeah, I’m okay. Just wiped out. Thanks dude._

_[suggestion: course of action::CHUCK] <rest/recharge/unit::captain> _

And that sounds like _such_ a good idea, the idea of Mike’s chest pressed against his back and one arm thrown casually over his shoulders is so comforting, but… _I’m not gonna bother Mike._

ROTH chirrups dubiously in meatspace. _[unit status: captain::MIKE] <capable/willing/helpful/concerned> _

_I know he’s worried, he always worries. Just—listen, I’ll talk to him in the morning._

_[suggestion: course of action::CHUCK] <rest::captain/recharge::captain/affection::captain> _

_Back off, dude._ You can’t lie to a machine, not brain to brain like this. ROTH has known about the whole embarrassing crush since they first started piloting lessons. _You know I can’t do that._

More dubious whirring and beeping. Inside the matrix, ROTH is silent for a couple of long milliseconds, then he sends back, _[suggestion: course of action::CHUCK] <rest>_

_Yeah. Goodnight, buddy._

Chuck opens his eyes with a long, deep breath and sits up. ROTH winds an arm around his and helps him up, steadying him as he stretches and takes a deep breath. “I’m good,” he mumbles, in response to ROTH’s concerned hovering. “No—I’m okay, buddy, seriously.”

ROTH pats his head one more time, and then hurries off down the hallway on his own mysterious android agenda. Chuck manages to stand tall until he vanishes around the corner, and then promptly slumps over and leans on the wall, groaning quietly as his overtaxed muscles complain.

He really needs to go to bed, he’s _so tired._ But his thoughts are still racing, desperate and exhausted. Too tired to focus, too wired (ha) to sleep. He knows his own brain, if he goes and lies down now he’s just gonna lie there awake for hours, worrying and hurting and wondering and trying to remember.

Unless…  A quick check tells him it’s eight-thirty universal—Mike should be in bed by now. Chuck really could go find him.

… _or_ he could… _not_ do that. Could stop encouraging himself to hope for things he can't have and maybe find somebody else.  Because-- _fuck,_ he wants _Mike_ , he’s wanted Mike for a stupidly long time, but Mike wasn’t there. Some beautiful stranger was there instead, and maybe it’s time to get over a stupid crush and find somebody who actually wants Chuck the same way he wants them.

Even if it is an…anonymous stranger from a mind-wipe hook-up service.

Chuck slumps down, buries his face in his hands and groans. It’s all too much. The near miss on the job, the crowded club, the drugs and the raza trip, it’s all _way_ too much. He needs security, something to calm down the relentless, miserable spinning of his thoughts.

Mike doesn’t ask when he comes into the room, guilty and shuffling, head low. He just holds up the blankets and lets Chuck crawl onto the beat-up mattress with him, sliding in under Mike's arm.

"Hey," says Mike quietly, and bumps his chin against Chuck's shoulder.  "You good?"

It's easier, when he's not facing Mike, to shake his head.  Chuck hears the faint, discontented noise Mike makes, and the arm around him tightens a little.  

“…S _orry,_ ” Mike says, low and rough and unhappy. “Sorry I wasn’t there. Woulda tried to help.”

“Mm.” Chuck tries to imagine how this night would have gone if Mike was there. Imagines the shit Chuck would have said to him when he was drugged out of his mind. The twist in his chest is painful. “Nothing you could do, dude.”

Mike breathes out—Chuck shivers as warm breath flutters his hair. “I could’ve been there, though. Maybe I could’ve—I dunno, I could have been there and kept that lady out of your face, and I ditched you instead. I—sorry.”

“That’s not your job, Mikey.”

Mike sighs again, presses his forehead against the back of Chuck’s skull and doesn’t answer.

“I’m okay,” Chuck says, just to fill the silence. “It was okay. I took care of it.”

“You shouldn’t have to.” Mike squeezes again, harder. “—‘M your captain. I’m responsible—I mean, I’m your friend, but I’m the captain, and—”

“I know, dude.”

“I’m supposed to—”

“It’s _okay_ , Mike.”

Mike makes an unhappy noise, muffled into Chuck’s hair, but he doesn’t argue. He just wraps Chuck up tighter in his grip and presses his face into the back of Chuck’s neck.

He says something, in the hazy darkness between waking and sleeping, but Chuck is already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed you weren't able to read/view the "Session 1" link--it wouldn't be fair if we all knew what happened and our boys didn't! ;D They can't remember, so for now it's going to have to remain a mystery.


	4. 3 - Vagrant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes the safest way to get through life is to assume that no matter where you go, somebody is out to get you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cyborgs aren't really a thing in the universe I'm stealing most of this scifi stuff from--but the one cyborg that we see is generally considered both dangerous and untrustworthy. There are definitely more of them in this universe, but that doesn't mean their PR is any better.

Chuck wakes up the next morning curled up in Mike’s bed alone. When he closes his eyes and links up to the network, the clock reads 11:13 AM, universal time. He’s been asleep for 15 hours.

Everything still aches when he pushes himself up and crawls to the edge of the bed, but it’s not nearly as bad as it was before he went to sleep. His head feels achy and fuzzy, like a hangover but more diffuse.

_[unit status: CHUCK] <organic/recharge/unit::activated>_

_[unit status] <welcome/happy>_

_Good morning to you too, buddy_ .

Chuck’s room is right next door, but he really doesn’t feel like going all the way over there to get cleaned up so he just uses Mike’s bathroom, yawning the whole time. His whole body feels like lead.

ROTH is cooking lunch by the time Chuck gets out to the common area, scrubbing at his face and still bleary-eyed. ROTH squints at him, nose wrinkling, and then shakes his head with a mangled warbling noise and goes hurrying back into the kitchen. He comes back out with a cup of flash-hydrated coffee in one hand and a huge cup of ice-water in the other one, and plunks them down at Chuck’s place at the table.

“Ha! Yeah, yeah, I know.” Chuck drops into his chair and chugs half of the cup of water in one go, then chases it down with a few gulps of steaming-hot coffee. The twinges in his muscles have settled to a constant, overworked ache. “Where is everybody?”

_[unit status: spy::JULIE] <performing function/distant/doubled/DELUXE©> _

_[unit status: engineer::DUTCH] <performing function/engine check/part replacement> _

_[unit status: captain::MIKE] <training/improvement/self-maintenance> _

_[unit status: TEXAS] <recharge/damage/hangover>_

Chuck snickers into his cup of coffee, and then remembers that Texas was the one who helped him to the terminal last night when he felt like tearing his clothes off in the middle of the street. Turns the laugh into a cough. “Happy anniversary to us, I guess.”

_[unit status] <celebration/happy/grateful>_

“You didn’t even get to go out with us,” Chuck says, and frowns. “That sucks. Happy anniversary, dude.”

ROTH presses both amorphous hands to his face and crinkles his one good eye shut into a smile.

_[unit status] <( x u ^)>_

“Okay I get it, you’re the cutest Burner.” Chuck tosses his cup at ROTH, and ROTH catches it easily out of the air and chirps. “I was gonna ask, uh…we all went out, but you didn’t get anything for the anniversary.”

_[unit status] <comfortable/provided for>_

“Yeah, I know. But…I was in R&D in KaneCom, y’know, and…I did a lot of work on bioprosthetics and stuff. I could take a look at the damage to your voicebox, if you wanted.”

ROTH blinks, then cocks his head to one side.

_[unit status] <functional/communication::navigator>_

“Yeah, I know! No, I know you don’t really need it. I just thought it might be…easier for you?”

ROTH thinks about that for a second, then nods slowly.

_[suggestion: course of action] <increase productivity/usefulness/utility> _

“Well…I mean, yeah, sure.” Chuck grins, a little uncertainly. “…It’d make it easier for you to join in on game night too, though.”

Mental-digital is a bad medium for communicating excitement, but ROTH manages it. He totally forgot about game night! The only things he can play are stuff like cards and charades, he’s always hanging wistfully around watching the others. Chuck snorts as ROTH ruffles up his hair and pats his back, hugs him.

“What, did you think I was saying you weren’t doing your job? Dude, you work harder than anybody on this ship!”

ROTH doesn’t get embarrassed about his insecurity like Chuck would—he shrugs and holds up a holoscreen. A man in KaneCom uniform, walking down a long line of blank-faced, perfect men and women in crisp uniforms. “— _Function is your highest priority!_ ” he’s saying as he walks. “You are upholding the reputation of this combine and you are expected to act like it—”

The video cuts back out again.

“You know we’re not like that, though.”

ROTH nods.

_[unit status] <in-progress/factory default::reprogramming>_

_I’m working on it,_ Chuck translates mentally, and sighs.

“…Me too, buddy.”

Lunch is a pretty quiet affair. Julie can’t usually find time to slip away and transfer herself back to her real body, so she’ll probably come out of her room at four or five in the afternoon, ravenous. Texas is not forthcoming, but Texas gets the worst hangovers Chuck has ever seen, so that’s not really surprising. Chuck wanders down after lunch to find Dutch, and finds him on a video call to the girl with the blue star earrings—wife or girlfriend or something else entirely, Chuck has never really asked. Whoever she is, Dutch gets really embarrassed when people are around to see him talk to her, so Chuck bows himself back out almost immediately.

There’s really only one place to go, after that.

Mike is still working out when he gets there. Chuck isn’t really surprised—the guy’s got stupid amounts of stamina, god—but he is…startled. To walk in and see that Mike’s stripped his shirt off at some point. That part, he wasn’t expecting.

“Hey, dude!” says Mike, still moving, and grunts as he slams his staff into one of the punching bags, one-two-three. “—Hhf! Ha—sleep pretty good?”

“Yeah, totally.” Chuck’s had a lot of practice, and his voice comes out almost completely steady as Mike flows like water into another set of moves, twisting and dodging nonexistent attacks. His back and bare chest are shiny with sweat, there’s muscle working in his arms as he fights, and Chuck is going to throw himself out an airlock, like, now. “You missed lunch. ROTH put yours in the fridge.”

“Cool!” says Mike, and just _does a backflip_ , the _asshole,_ like it’s no big deal. Lands it on his feet and leans on his staff, catching his breath. “Whoo! Dang! You should get in here, buddy, we haven’t sparred in forever!”

“Uh,” says Chuck. “Hah, um.”

“Come on!” Mike coaxes, and spreads his arms. He probably means it to be inviting, but instead Chuck’s eyes snap down to his bare chest and kind of stick there for a second or two. Mike doesn’t seem to notice. “Come on, Chuckles. You know you wanna.”

“I’m wearing the wrong—” Chuck starts, and then glances down at himself and stops, because nope, he didn’t get dressed this morning, he’s still wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt. “I’m, uh. Pretty tired, still—”

“So am I!” Mike says, _laughing,_ god, Chuck is gonna punch him in the mouth. “I’ve been workin’ out all day, you…uh, worked out all night, I guess—” He stumbles on the words for a second, then rushes on, “—should be a good match! Warm you up for the morning, y’know!”

Something small and pitiful and familiar in Chuck’s chest twists up and aches pathetically at him.

“ _Fine,_ ” he groans, and steps up onto the padded floor, rolling his shoulders. Rooting around in his pockets for a minute produces a metric ton of lint and, eventually, one hair tie with almost all the elastic worn out of it. Mike whoops and collapses his staff, tossing it across the room. It lands on top of his folded-up shirt, because of course it does.

"Are you gonna keep your shirt on, dude?"

Chuck half-stumbles. "Uh—yeah?" If he pretends to focus hard enough on tying his hair back, he doesn't have to look at Mike's face. "Why would I take it off?"

"Oh, no, that's cool!" says Mike, and shrugs. "Just thinkin', y'know, we're not gonna make planet for a while, and we don't have the water left to wash clothes until we land." He nods at his folded shirt and coat. "I can do, like, one more shower with what I've got in the tank, but not clothes. So. Didn't wanna stink the rest of the day."

Oh...goddammit. And Chuck's other shirt smells bad from last time they were landed, because that stupid drug had him sweating through his clothes. Chuck hesitates, then groans and gives. "...Fine. Yeah, okay, fine."

He always feels skinny and inadequate when he takes his shirt off, but when he's on the mat across from _Mike_ the difference is just freakin' embarrassing. Chuck rocks on the balls of his feet, breathing deep through his nose, feeling his systems tick up from their baseline whir. Mike's not laughing at him, not trash-talking or even lingering on Chuck's bare chest as he sizes him up. It's fine. This is fine.

"You gonna turn on your combat protocol?" Mike says, and he sounds excited, anticipatory. He bounces on the balls of his feet, grinning. "Come on. Hit me with it."

"You're crazy," says Chuck half-heartedly.

"Come on, buddy!" Mike grins. "I'm all warmed up! Show me what you got!"

Chuck sighs, reaches into his brain and undoes the lock he's put on his combat protocols. He can almost feel a _click_ , like he flipped an actual switch over; his weight shifts, his stance settles, his fists rise in front of him. Mike grins again, and this time there's an edge to it.

"Aw, _yeah,_ " he says, and he sounds more out of breath now than he did when Chuck first came in. "Awesome."

"Three," says Chuck, and sees his arms rise minutely, sees the shift of Mike's weight and thinks— _feint to the right—_ "Two."

Neither of them says "one"—both of them move at the same second, Mike feinting right and Chuck spinning left, meeting the real strike with a hard block that sends a stinging jolt through the organic parts of his arm. He thinks _shoulder throw,_ and almost without his consent his body moves in a familiar pattern, turning Mike's weight against him and hitching him up over one shoulder to slam him into the mat. Mike slaps the mat, rocks and pulls free, rolling onto his feet. Laughs breathlessly.

"Nice! See, buddy? Skills."

"Cheating," Chuck corrects him, and rushes forward again. He throws a punch and then staggers as Mike spins out of his way and slams an elbow between his shoulder blades, sending him stumbling. Mike catches his arm, twists it up, going for a joint lock.

There's no time to think, no time to react—or there wouldn't be, if Chuck was normal. He turns with the twist, reaches into his brain and dilates his perception. Drags in a breath through lungs that seem to lag agonizingly behind his brain. Mike's going to get him in a joint lock, and Chuck's flexible but not flexible enough to pull out of the one Mike's going for. He's seen Mike get people like this before, he likes this move. Chuck glances back over his shoulder, muscles turning his head with terrifying slowness, and gets a glance up and down—Mike's got the better grip, but shorter arms, less flexibility. And his stance...

The world snaps into real-time again. Chuck drops his weight, lashes back with a foot, hooks an ankle behind Mike's leg and yanks it out from under him.

They go down in a tangle of limbs, Mike still holding on stubbornly to Chuck's arm—rolling and grappling and then slamming into the mat with Chuck on top. Mike bucks under him, and Chuck carefully lets another 5% of his charge flow into his arm muscles and presses down hard. Wheezing as his brain catches up with his body and re-calibrates for his new perception speed.

"Dang!" says Mike, like the total dork he is. "What did you just do, dude?"

"Maybe I'm just—hhhhthat good," Chuck pants, and bears down dead weight on Mike's belly as he tries to throw Chuck's grip off again. "Who says I did something?"

"Your eyes were, like..." Mike waves a hand, as much as he can with his wrists pinned flat to the mat. "—Going _crazy,_ like, strobe-light crazy."

"I slowed down time," Chuck says. "Like a superhero or something. Don't try to distract me, dude. Are you gonna tap out?"

"What do you mean—okay, okay! Uncle." Mike laughs as Chuck pretends to growl at him, squeezing his wrists again. "Oh my god, there's a killer bot on my ship! Mercy!"

"You dork," says Chuck, and sits back, settling his weight a little more firmly than necessary right on Mike's stomach.

"Oof," says Mike mildly.

"Oh, suck it up." Actually, wow. That felt...really, really good! And he's still sore, but fighting seems to have worked out some of the achy kinks in his muscles. Chuck gets comfortable and grins down at his best friend. "I figured out how to unlock the executive lock on my brain's chronometric perception."

"Oh!" says Mike. "That sounds really sciencey and easy to understand." His eyes crinkle up when he smiles, there's a dimple at the corner of his mouth, and Chuck's stomach gives a dumb, traitorous swoop.

"It _means_ I made my brain go faster," Chuck translates. "So everything else looked like it was going really slowly."

"Seriously? You can do that?" Mike grunts and shoves, trying to push him off—Chuck lets himself be pushed, then drops himself back down on Mike's stomach again. " _Hff,_ dude, have you been eating _bricks_?"

"I dunno, Mikey," says Chuck dryly. "Could that maybe have something to do with how I'm like 90% metal?"

"Oh, right." Mike's smile just barely wavers, the way it sometimes does when Chuck mentions the cyborg thing. A second later the waver is gone—he laughs instead and grabs both of Chuck's legs, holding on tight. "Y'know what it also means?"

"Wh—?"

"It's easier to tip you over," Mike says, and then the world spins and Chuck is landing hard on the mat, winded. A hand grabs his wrist while he's still gasping, and he's flipped deftly over onto his stomach, one arm twisted neatly into the exact same hold he just managed to stop Mike from using.

"Say uncle, Chuckles," says Mike brightly, and rests a knee casually on his butt, pinning him handily. "We'll call it a tie."

"I already won!"

"Did you, though?" Mike says, and leans in closer, practically whispering in his ear. "... _Or was I biding my time?_ I'm pretty sneaky that way, you can't count me out for anything."

"Oh, you son of a bitch."

"Language," says Mike firmly.

"You son of a bitch, _captain._ "

Mike busts out laughing and climbs off him. "Okay, okay," he says, and offers Chuck a hand up. "You win! You won fair and square, I'm just givin' you a hard time. You know you love it."

Chuck breathes in. Breathes out. "I know," he says, and if it only comes out a little bit strangled, that's a victory. He shakes it off. Grins. "...I know you're not gonna get any lunch, now."

"What?" Mike sounds genuinely injured. "Why?"

"You made me use my upgrades," says Chuck. "I'm _starving_ again. And you cheated, so I'm eating all your food."

"Oh yeah?" says Mike, and a second later Chuck is hitting the mat again as Mike swipes his feet and runs.

ROTH makes Chuck a second plate of food and they eat together this time, until Texas drags himself out of his room to see what all the laughing is about. Lunch turns into a piecemeal, rowdy, all-afternoon kind of affair, full of arguments over who gets the best-tasting freeze-dried vegetables and whether or not Texas can fit an entire protein bar in his mouth. Chuck eats as much as his ration will allow and heads back to his cabin feeling much warmer and steadier on his feet than he did when he woke up.

When he finally finishes cleaning up, as much as he can with their water ration running so thin, there's a message in his inbox.

Chuck stares at the screen for a long second, mouth hanging open, and then hurries over to his bed and sits down on it, pulling a pillow into his lap to rest his elbows on as he types. His hands are shaking, just enough to make it hard to type; he glitches out the screen twice trying to get it open. And then…

_Connecting…_

_Connecting…_

_Connected._

?: _hey!_

Chuck breathes out. He almost thought he made it up, the brief conversation after he woke up in the transfer pod. He hesitates, hands hovering over the keyboard.

C: _hey. :)_

C: _We’re gonna be in port tonight._

?: _u think its big enough fr a raza??_

C: _Should be._

Like he didn’t go looking as soon as he knew which port they were going to dock at, like an eager chump.

_C: Are you gonna be landed?_

?: _y, should drop in like 2 hrs now_

C: _Convenient._

Lame. God, _lame,_ and he sounds so suspicious, like some crappy detective in an old book. _Hmm, suspicious. How convenient._

?: _yeah, wanna see u_

_?: ill head out when we land_

C: _Are you sure this is gonna work?_

?: _??_

C: _I don’t remember what you look like._

And then, fast and shameful, before he can backspace it,

C: _I know you were way way out of my league._

?: _weird_

?: _thats exactly what i know about u ;)_

Chuck has to sit back and breathe for a couple of minutes, because that is dangerously close to actual real life flirting, that somebody is actually doing, in his direction. Holy shit, it’s even got the stupid winky face on the end.

C: _Okay._

C: _Let’s test that hypothesis. ;)_

Okay, _that_ was lame. On a scale from zero to lame that was at _least_ a 178, and as soon as he hits enter he wants to erase the words from history but there’s no way to do that fast enough that the mystery guy won’t see them and instead he has to just sit and stare at them in mortification until—

_-blip-_

?: _ur amazing_

_?: o!! wanted t ask u_

_?: im guessing ur a guy, y??_

Oh. Chuck stops, hands hovering, for just a second. But—shit, it literally doesn’t matter, why should it matter if he knows?

_C: Yeah. You are too, right?_

_C: Is that okay?_

_?: yeah!!!_

_?: k cool just checking_

?: _ill be there 2230_

_?: see u there???_

Stop. Breathe.

C: _Yeah._

C: _See you there._

—

They all go out together that night. The city they land in has a huge entertainment complex and hovering strips of buildings that are fortunately too colorful and interesting to be reminiscent of Deluxe. The crew has some money left over, from their interrupted night out last time; the whole crew goes out for barbeque. If Chuck happens to notice the rest of the crew fielding away anybody who gets too close to him, nobody drinking at all, he doesn’t mention it. He also doesn’t admit that he feels way safer, warm and stupid and secure, having them all gathered around. He’s a grown man, for fuck’s sake.

He does definitely feel less safe when he splits off from the group, waving off the others’ concern, and sets off up the station to find the terminal. Yes, he gets why they’re worried about him, and no, he doesn’t really want to head down there by himself. But he’s sure as hell not going to drag Mike along or something. Mike…doesn’t need to know he’s going again.

It's a long climb. As a general rule, the arbitrarily-chosen top end of a station is the higher-class end, the end people actually make their homes in. The place for chain companies to set up their outlets and the place where bars have bouncers and restaurants take reservations. Then it usually gets progressively seedier with every level you descend. For the kind of establishment it is, the raza terminals actually tend to fall pretty high on the station. Good reputation, fair prices, cutting-edge tech. The first one Chuck went to was near the bottom, but this one is more than two-thirds of the way up.

It says something about the company Chuck has fallen into, that he wishes it was a little bit _less_ cutting-edge. He fits in better near the bottom of the station, with the battered coat, the scars and the engine-burns on his arms. He looks...well. Like a mercenary. Like a pirate. People start giving him space as he gets higher level by level, and Chuck's stomach knots nervously once or twice as local law enforcement officers give him a hard once-over. But nobody stops him until he's more than three-quarters of the way up, just a couple of levels from his destination.

He's just getting out of a corridor full of dedicated entertainment modules—bars, party venues and restaurants—when somebody shoves him hard between the shoulder blades, almost hard enough to knock him over.

"Hey," somebody slurs, and Chuck's heart is already sinking before— "—Hey, _wire_."

There’s a couple of older guys behind him. Fifties, maybe even early sixties, probably upper-middle class by their clothes and accessories, and _definitely_ drunk. And—Chuck looks them over, feeling his eyes flash—71% chance they’re high on something too. Well that's just… _great._

One of them points at him, open like he’s some kind of animal, and says, too loud, “See? Told you so. Look, he’s got those freaky eyes. I saw him—scanning the street or whatever.” He glowers at Chuck like Chuck’s done something personally offensive. “…What were you scanning for, huh?”

“I was just looking around,” says Chuck, as calm and flat as he can. His heart is suddenly pounding in his throat, a relentless beat of _run, run, RUN—_ “Do you want something? I’m busy.”

He starts to turn, intending to walk away, and almost runs into a third man, standing behind him and almost blocking the narrow street. He doesn’t look hostile, really—none of them do. Just curious, that weird, cruel curiosity that’s gotten way too familiar since his surgeries. Chuck swallows, struggling to keep his breaths deep and even instead of shallow and desperate, and pulls his sleeves up slowly. The guys watch with interest, staring at the thin, straight, perfect scars that run across his forearms and over his hands. He’s not gonna pull out his weapons implants, but he needs to have the option.

“You some kinda discount pirate bot?’ The guy who shoved him is still talking too loud, like he’s putting on a show for somebody. There were guys like this in school when Chuck was a kid—be mean loud enough and you'll find people to laugh at anything. He always hated dealing with them then, and he's not super excited to do it now. Especially if they're on enough party-drugs they think 'pirate bot' is a good burn. "Who let you outta the docks?"

"Shoulda stayed in the docks," snickers the other guy, slurred and giggly. His pupils are huge, he's definitely swaying. People in the road glance over as they pass, curious. Some of them look uncomfortable, uncertain, like maybe they think they should do something—they don’t meet Chuck’s eyes though, and they don’t step in. Some of them have even stepped into doorways or off to the side so they can watch.

“What kinda wire are you?” says the loud one. “Twenty-five percent? Fifty?”

 _Eighty-seven-point-nine percent_ . The answer snaps up, immediate and instinctive, _answer inquiry. Data available, answer inquiry. Answer inquiry,_ answer inquiry! Chuck clamps his mouth shut on the words that want to come out and just watches them instead, waiting for the first move.

Apparently sullen silence isn't entertaining enough. The loud one steps in closer, pushing up into Chuck’s space, forcing him to take a step back away from the stench of alcohol on the man’s breath. “Hey, what, your ears _defective_? I asked you how much you got chopped!”

“Look,” starts Chuck, and…stops. Thinks of Mike, standing tall, voice calm, pulling back the dusty hem of his coat just enough to show the handle of a gun that he’s never going to use. _Don’t pick fights, but don’t back down_ , he said once, god knows how many years ago.

Chuck stands up straighter, forces his voice steady, and sends a bright pulse of light through his eyes. “I’m on my way to meet somebody and I’m not gonna be late,” he says, and flexes his fingers, feeling the subtle shift of heat in his skin as the power channels under his scars light up threatening blue-white-green. “…If I have to take you out, I will.”

He doesn’t really mean to activate his combat programming again. It’s a subconscious thing, adrenaline and anger and fear flipping that switch inside his head. KaneCom programming spills out into his head, and the implants in his eyes map out targets and statistics, overlaid on their faces and bodies; _exsanguination, broken neck, asphyxiation—_

“Hey, we’re not gonna fight you,” says one of the men—he looks considerably less amused now. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Good question!” says Chuck, louder than he means to, fighting to keep his voice steady and losing word by word. The fear is clashing with the anger into a sickly, hysterical mess of reckless adrenaline. “Probably somewhere between chopping open my skull and pulling my spine out so they could drill into it? I guess they damaged the part of my brain that was cool with people calling me a fuckin’ _wire_!”

His voice cracks into a hoarse yell on the last couple of words. Heads turn in the crowd, people staring. There’s somebody in a uniform leaning on a table outside a café, watching, but they look openly bored, only vaguely interested in the proceedings. That’s better than somebody storming over here to arrest Chuck for something, but it’s not great. He was kind of hoping the law would be on his side on this one, considering he’s outnumbered three to—oh _shit_ , the loud guy’s got a weapon.

Not one Chuck’s seen before, it looks like some kind of taser maybe, but the way he holds it it’s definitely made to hurt people. “Hey, _fuck_ you,” he slurs, and Chuck’s body shifts automatically, weight sinking. Ready. “You don’t get t’talk to me like—!”

The third guy who was blocking Chuck’s path comes hurrying around him and grabs his loud friend’s arm. He’s not steady on his feet, and there’s a definite whiff of booze in the air around him, but he looks worried and his pupils aren’t blown out like the other two guys’ are. He’s trying to whisper something, occasionally throwing a glance back over his shoulder like he thinks Chuck’s gonna start glitching and go for their throats. From the occasional explosion of slurred profanity, his buddy’s not interested in listening.

But…he’s also not paying attention.

Chuck backs away, slow at first and then faster. And then he runs.

He makes it up another level and a half of the station before he has to stop and duck into an alley, eyes stinging, breath coming fast and harsh. When he tries to wipe away the sweat stinging his eyes, his hands are shaking uncontrollably.

God. _God._ He’s not bad at bluffing—has to be good at it, had to learn—but…

Somebody is messaging him. Has been messaging him, for a couple of minutes now. Chuck blinks, flicks the messages open.

_Mike: u ok?_

_Mike: y rr ur combat protocals on_

_Mike: chuck?_

_Mike: chuck!!_

Shit.

_TheVanquisher: I’m okay!_

_TheVanquisher: somebody tried to pick a fight but they backed down, I’m okay._

Mike knows how hard that is for him, standing up to people like that, bluffing until they back down, which is probably why his next message is,

_Mike: wow way to go buddy!!!_

_Mike: u ok now though?_

_Mike: do u need me to come find u??_

He would, too, no matter what he’s in the middle of. Chuck breathes in deep and lets it out slow.

_TheVanquisher: No, I’m good._

And then, before Mike can send an _are you sure?? Are you really sure because I can totally come over—_

_TheVanquisher: I’ve got some stuff to take care of_

_TheVanquisher: I might be back late but I’ll let you know if I need you. Okay?_

_Mike: k_

_Mike: be careful, ok??_

_TheVanquisher: Why do you always say that, dude? Come on._

_TheVanquisher: I'm always careful._

—

Mike sighs and closes the chat. If Chuck says he’s got it, he’s got it and Mike’s going to let him deal with whatever’s going on. Chuck can handle himself in a fight, Mike _just_ sparred with him this morning.

Mike gets distracted for a minute—just a minute, seriously—caught on the thought of Chuck with his shirt off and his hair tied back. The scars standing out on his pale skin against his freckles. Sinking his weight onto his toes and raising his hands to fight, going all bright-eyed and ready. Mike’s not happy about the cyborg thing, in a lot of ways, but Chuck’s combat protocols are…pretty dang cool.

Mike rolls one wrist absently, bites his lip at the heavy, soft ache of bruises from Chuck pinning him.

…Nope. Focus. No. Tonight isn’t about Chuck, it’s about the man Mike’s gonna go see. Even if…Mike has to think about Chuck. To see him.

Chuck wouldn’t mind, probably. If he knew. If Mike had to tell him, which he doesn’t, and he’s not gonna, because Chuck would _definitely_ mind.

It’s stupid to think about this. It doesn’t matter, Mike’s going and he’s gonna meet up with this guy and he’s gonna have to think about what he likes and that’s just how it works.

It occurred to him, the night after Chuck got drugged, when he came limping into Mike's room and crawled into bed with him—it occurred to Mike that both of them did the same thing, that night. It occurred to him that he was thinking about Chuck, so the guy he got probably looked kind of like him.

It occurred to him that he doesn’t know who Chuck got, who he thought about. What the person he got looked like.  Chuck had been really into a girl in management back on Deluxe for like six months--like her, maybe, all tall and thin and delicate with big eyes and a pretty face--

Between the guilt and the weird sleep schedule and the strange, deep-set ache that came with that thought, Mike didn't get much sleep that night.

...God, Mike _still_ can't believe he wasn't there. He should've noticed there was something weird about Chuck, pulled that lady off him instead of vanishing into the belly of the station to sulk and hook up with random dudes that maybe-sort-of look like his best friend. He should've—

Mike's body reacts before he even registers what he's seeing. There's a flash of white body-armor, a gleam of blue, that _shade of blue—_ Mike dodges back and swings immediately into the nearest alley, flattening himself against the wall. Outside, there are raised voices; distorted, familiar. KaneCom Elites. If Mike hadn’t seen the alert for Chuck’s combat protocols, stopped off and waited, he would have walked right into them.

Mike stays where he is, hidden in the shadows as the Elites pass by; he keeps a hand on his staff, barely breathing, but those weird, glowing eyes don't turn toward him. Five...six...seven men. Mike watches them go, lets them vanish from sight and counts to fifteen, forcing himself to wait. Then he pushes himself away from the wall and hurries out into the street, keeping his eyes on the retreating shapes of the KaneCom troopers.

“ _Mike to The Burner,_ ” he mutters, and hears the soft click in his ear as his call goes through. “ROTH! Hook me up to the rest of the crew, we’ve got white and blue coming our way.” ROTH chirps and whirrs, worried and insistent. “Yeah, I’m fine. But they’re headed for the docks, and they’re definitely looking for something.”

A firm beep, and the other comm screens light up. Dutch is onboard—Chuck is somewhere on the station, walking slow and looking startled to see Mike calling. Julie and Texas come in from further down on the station, with the chatter of a crowd behind them.

“Guys!” Mike peers around the corner—the KaneCom Elites are out of sight now, but they’ve left a wake of disturbed customers and the occasional overturned stall. “We’ve got incoming. KaneCom is headed to the docks.”

“ _What?!_ ” Chuck’s voice squawks anxiously on the words—his video screen minimizes to a floating avatar, but by the sudden hitch of his breathing, he’s on the move. Mike ducks out of his cover and takes off, walking as fast as he can without looking suspicious. “ _Who? How many?_ ”

“At least one troop.” Mike steps into an elevator, presses the button and feels it rumble as it starts toward the docks. “I saw seven guys, but there could be more. They must’ve started at the top, they’re gonna flush us out—how’s the capacitor running?”

“ _It’s not,_ ” Dutch says, terse. “ _We’re working on it now.”_

“ _You can’t close her back up until we’ve got the parts,”_ says Chuck. “ _Julie?”_

“ _On our way._ ” Julie sounds out of breath. “ _We’ve got everything on Dutch's list, but the water refill is only half-done, and the food—_ ”

“We’ll make it work.” Mike pulls out his staff as the doors open. “Get to the ship. I’ve got eyes on ‘em, I’ll buy you time.”

“ _Mike, no_ —”

“Focus, Chuckles,” says Mike tensely, and his staff unfolds in his hand, warm leather worn under his palm. “You gotta have her ready when they bring the part back, okay?”

“ _We’re on it,_ ” Dutch says. “ _Out._ ”

“ _Be safe,_ ” says Chuck, quiet and unhappy, and then the commlink cuts off.

—

They get out of the station by the skin of their teeth. Mike manages to start a street fight a couple of blocks from the Elites, and when half of them jog off to check out the disturbance, Mike ambushes the other three. By the time the others come back and find half of their troop groaning on the ground, Mike is half a level away and accelerating.

They get out with about a half-load of rations, a quarter-load of water. All the parts they need are locked up tight and humming away when Mike comes sprinting in through the cargo hatch; he finds Chuck there barely ahead of him, doubled over and wheezing. ROTH gets them out of there so fast they scrape off some paint on the side of the dock they're in, and then they're in FTL and home-free.

It was too close, though. Mike calls Jacob, and Jacob calls a couple of other people, and eventually it gets around that Kane has upped Mike's bounty again. Instant promotion to commander for every Elite in any troop that catches him.

"It's gotta be that last job we took," Dutch says, and drags a hand down his face, eyes tight with worry. "Bet he was really hopin' to catch us with that one."

"He had the message I picked up bugged," says Chuck bleakly. "It was supposed to send out tracker signals." He hunches in on himself, tight and unhappy. "...I bet the whole R&D sector who put the viruses together is getting disciplined right now. _What do you mean you_ can't find them? _You told me it was foolproof!!"_ His mouth twists bitterly on the words, like they hurt to say.

"...Not your fault, buddy," says Mike quietly. Chuck shakes his head slowly, pinches the bridge of his nose like he's got a headache.

" _Nobody's fault but Kane's,_ " says Jacob solidly on-screen, and crosses his skinny arms. "... _And those boys know that. You did, when you worked there_."

"Yeah," says Chuck, and sighs. "I know. I know, it just..."

"Burns you up," Mike finishes for him. "I know, dude. We gotta do what we can do, right now."

Chuck nods miserably.

" _You can't be worryin' about them when you got your own mess to handle,"_ Jacob says firmly. " _Look. Right now you gotta just figure out a safe spot to head to, and get there as fast as light can take you. Reckon the closest safe planet is..._ " He squints at a screen, then taps it sharply. "... _Here_."

Chuck and ROTH both frown at the planet he picked, calculating—ROTH chirps softly, eye narrowing, and Chuck's lips thin unhappily.

"That's a long flight."

" _Gotta be_ ," says Jacob. " _Until the heat dies down, you kids shouldn't be anywhere near that psycho. Get clear outta Dodge."_

"We ain't been on Dodge in like a year and a half," says Texas, nose wrinkling.

" _Not the planet!"_ Jacob sighs. " _It's an old—never mind. All I’m sayin’ is, it's about time to get real far away and let this blow over for a week or two. Don't go walkin' into any more traps."_

"Yeah," says Mike, and sits back with a sigh. "Will do. Thanks, Jacob."

" _Stay safe, kiddo."_

The call ends.

There's a dull, unhappy silence for a few minutes afterwards. Texas is frowning at nothing, Mike and Julie both look worried and preoccupied, like they're thinking about something else.

"...Okay," says Chuck finally, and drags a hand down his face. "Okay. ROTH, can you gimme the coordinates for that safeworld Jacob gave us?" Mike glances up just in time to see ROTH chirp, eyes flashing. Chuck blinks, and an answering flash of blue flickers in his eyes. "Thanks."

"How long's the flight?" asks Julie bleakly. Chuck frowns, head tilting on one side, calculating. The way he grimaces makes everybody slump a little bit.

"...A week."

 _"Seriously_ ?" Mike groans. "What if we don't make any stops?"

"That _is_ if we don't make any stops," says Chuck. "With two stops to refuel, it's a week and a half." He winces apologetically at the way everybody groans and grumbles. "—Sorry! It's a _really_ long flight."

"It's fine," says Mike. There's a thread of nasty, sneering guilt in his gut that's whispering _this is your fault, it's your bounty_ —he does his best to ignore it. "It's cool! There's some people out there we know. We could visit Rayon! He might have some jobs for us he wouldn't call Jacob about."

"Last time—"

"It's not gonna be like last time," says Mike firmly.

"Yeah, but the time _before_ that—"

"It's not gonna be like the time before that either." Mike slaps Chuck on the back encouragingly. "Come on, buddy! Look on the bright side!"

—

Mike gets back up to his room and strips off his coat before he remembers there was something he wanted to do. It's not like—it's not a big _deal,_ but—well. He doesn't wanna be rude.

_Connecting to private network..._

_Untraceable line established..._

_Pinging contact ID..._

_Connecting…_

_Connecting…_

_Connected._

It's weird how nervous this stuff makes him. Mike's been in literal firefights, has planned heists that don't get his heart beating this hard. He hesitates, then shrugs to nobody in particular and types...

_M: hey sorry I couldnt make it last night._

No response. Mike watches the blinking cursor for a minute, then two, then just as he's about to sigh and close the window, a response blips up on his screen.

_?: I actually didn’t make it there either, so._

_?: Don’t worry about it._

_?: Not that I would've known if we'd missed each other and I'd gotten somebody else._

Oh, that’s…huh. That’s super weird to think about. Mike doesn’t really like that thought, actually. This guy seems...competent, yeah, but there's definitely a nervous dorkiness about him that makes Mike weirdly protective. He's not _possessive_ or anything. He's seriously not. That would be dumb.

_M: I would of known_

_?: you really wouldn’t have, dude, but it’s_

A pause

_?: it’s cute that you think so._

Awww.

_M: maybe not off the top f my head, but I bet id know something was up_

_M: not like id get anybody nearly as great as u_

Another long pause, and then

_?: oh my god you’re so embarrassing_

_?: knock it off_

Mike grew up around Chuck and he’s pretty good at telling when people are really mad and when they’re just flustered and yelling about it. He grins as he types back,

_M: but its so fun making u blush_

_?: oh fuck you I am NOT blushing_

_M: yeah?_

_?: if I am it’s because I’m embarrassed for you_

_M: uhhuh_

_?: shut up!!!_

_M: three !!!s it must be tru_

_?: Shut your stupid mouth, Mystery Man._

_?: Anyway, I can't make it for a while. We'll probably be in FTL for the next couple of days._

_M: jeez hw far r u going???_

_?: Pretty far._

Mike waits for a minute, but that's all the answer he gets. Okay, well...fair enough.

_M: thats ok_

_M: u should ping me when u make ground_

_M: or before, w/e_

_M: we cant meetup but we can still hav fun chats ;)_

_?: Are you trying to invite me to cyber you??_

…Is he?

_M: am I wat now_

_?: Are you_

_?: like_

_?: Like, chat-sex_

_M: whoa like wht???_

Oh. Oh geez, is that a thing? People can do that?

Mike glances around like there might be somebody in the room with him, shifts his weight a bit. He… _could_. It’s not like he doesn’t have time right now…

_M: I ttlly would if u would_

There’s a long second of silence. Mike stares until his eyes water, waiting.

_M: buddy u still there??_

_M: we dont have to its cool_

_?: Oh! No, we totally can, I mean_

_?: I don’t know how good I would be, but we could try?_

_?: Somebody distracted me, srry._

Oh. He’s doing something right now. Mike sighs and sits back.

_M: its cool do ur thing_

_M: we can talk later rite???_

_?: Yeah, totally!_

_?: Sounds fun. ;)_

—

Long flights are depressing as heck.

Mike cleans up the shuttle, buffs out the scrapes, fiddles with the engine and messes with the fuel injectors. Then he cleans the whole ship, organizes the cargo hold, cleans the whole ship again, and then lifts weights until his arms give out.

Then he checks, and it’s been thirteen hours, day one.

Chuck never seems to have problems keeping himself entertained on long flights, but that’s because Chuck’s whole brain is the extranet. Mike goes moping up to the bridge and finds Chuck entrenched in a lively debate about some vintage TV show Mike’s never heard of. He’s eating his protein ration for dinner, leaned back in his chair with his feet up, answering messages with his brain. He’s totally happy to see Mike, but also totally distracted and doing something that involves a lot of sitting still and talking about stuff Mike doesn’t get.

Mike mopes off again after a couple of minutes and finds Texas instead, and Texas offers to spar with him, which would have been great if Mike hadn’t already done so many lifts it feels like his arms are overcooked noodles. Julie is in Deluxe, of course, doing whatever she does. Mike sits next to her body in its pod for a while, talking to nobody. But that gets real boring after, like, ten minutes.

Dutch is taking gadgets apart in the kitchen when Mike finds him, which is at least interesting.

“I’m pretty sure I can make this thing work better,” he explains, while he rummages around in the rehydration chamber’s guts and pulls parts out to pile them in Mike’s arms. “Y’know how we got it discount and it only hydrates, like, half of your food half the time?”

“It’s better than what we had before,” Mike points out, and takes another part.

“Yeah, because _before_ you just put your rations on a plate and spritzed them with a spray bottle until they looked edible,” Dutch says, and throws a dirty look over at the slightly sad-looking spray bottle sitting on the counter. “…Why do you keep it around?”

“Backup,” says Mike, and grins at Dutch’s expression. “Aw, come on dude. Gotta remember your roots! Besides, we got a label-maker for that thing.”

 _REHYDRATION UNIT,_ reads the peeling label. Dutch rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling.

Figuring out what’s going on with various kitchen appliances takes a solid couple of hours. Mike is still jittery by the time it’s done, but it feels good to get stuff done. He’s in a much more optimistic mood by the time the ship chimes softly and the lights go down; he strolls back toward his room, humming to himself as he goes.

Chuck’s door is open when Mike walks past; he almost pokes his head in, but then he hears Chuck talking quietly, sees a glowing screen hovering in front of him. It doesn’t look like he’s playing a game, it looks like…a comm screen.

“ _We were hoping you’d source it before the man’s men got up there,”_ says a faint voice from the other end—a man’s voice, not familiar. The words sound like gibberish to Mike but they make Chuck sigh and nod, faintly silhouetted against the dim light of his screen. “ _Did…did we get any of you?”_

“One of my guys,” says Chuck. “Shoulder. It’s barely party hangover.”

The guy huffs out a breath. “ _Cool,”_ he says. “ _Good. Raoul could tell you were the one who snapped his line, he’s been pacing around for hours._ ”

“Aw, man.” Chuck groans. For a second they’re both quiet. Mike hesitates, uncertain he should be listening, too worried to step away. He’s…heard people talk like that before, the shift in Chuck’s speech pattern, the abbreviated phrases that don’t make any sense. He’s gotta be talking to somebody from Deluxe. From KaneCom R&D. “No, it’s good, bro. Tell Raoul we’re good.”

 _“I’ll say you’re_ good _,_ ” says the tech. “ _Quit growing out, showoff. Oo, big man’s down to his shoulders, shavers better respect._ ”

“Ha!” Chuck laughs sudden and cracked and sweet, like he’s startled. “Oh, come on! Shut up, dude.”

“ _Heeey, there he is._ ” The guys he’s talking to laughs too. _“Squeaks, for real. You’re too goddamn young to hang around stressing for stress.”_

“How do I _not_ stress, exactly?”

“ _Ahh, you know R &D...”_

“… _’We can take it’_ ,” Chuck recites with him, like it’s a familiar mantra. He sighs again. “I know. I just feel like a total glitch every time we win.”

“ _Go crash a throat-cube factory,”_ says the tech. _“_ _That’ll be good enough payback._ ”

“Ha!” There’s a faint beep, an urgent buzzer. Chuck groans. “—That’s the window. Say hi to everybody for me, okay?”

“ _Will do. Stay smart, free man._ ”

“Stay smart,” Chuck echoes, and then there’s just the faint, distant drone of a dial tone.

Mike stays where he is, quiet, just…listening to the dial tone. He’s not sure what he feels, just—  He forgets about Deluxe, sometimes. Forgets about being nine years old, meeting his podmate for the first time. Chuck had seen him, seen his junior cadet uniform and immediately ducked his head like he didn’t want to meet Mike’s eyes. He’d rattled off _“Transfer from sector 67, city 3-ZG, continent 3, pleasure to meet you, cadet!_ ” like he was reading it off some script inside his head.

It had been rough, for a couple weeks. Chuck spent most of it flinching every time Mike tried to talk to him or touch him, and barely said a word to him the whole time—unless you counted _yes, cadet_ and _no, cadet,_ and _sorry, cadet._ On the rare occasions Mike had heard Chuck make a call to his friends from his home-city, he remembers being totally baffled by the way Chuck talked, rattling out sentences in long, unbroken strings. The slang he used, the almost impenetrable cobbled-together sentences. Chuck had been just as confused by the way Mike went to bed every night at eight on the dot, how he snapped awake at four-thirty AM with no alarm. The clear, intentional brevity of his sentences. How he spent his time playing with simulators and VR thrill-games instead of coding or chatting with friends.

And now here they are, two Deluxe kids on the edge of the galaxy, hanging around blowing up bot factories. Mike watches his best friend stretch, twisting his wrists and rolling his neck, scars flashing lazily in the dim room, and then steps forward and taps on the door.

“…Request permission to enter the bridge?”

Chuck jumps and turns, then grins. “Hey!” he says. “I don’t think captains have to ask permission for stuff on their own ships.”

It’s been a long time since Mike was surprised by the warm thrill in his chest when Chuck smiles at him like that. “Well,” he says, and straightens his spine, clipping his sentences the way he used to in cadet training. “Security believes in upholding a higher standard of respect. _Technician._ Permission to enter.”

“Oh!” Chuck snorts. “Yeah, I forgot. Yes, of course, commander. Permission granted to enter my quarters— _oops,_ I mean, the bridge—commander. Sorry, commander.”

“Okay, nope, never mind, that’s way too weird.” Mike slumps his shoulders again and jogs over, dropping down on the bed next to Chuck. “Who was on the comm?”

“One of my guys,” says Chuck. Clears his throat. “One of—the techs, I mean. They found a blind spot in Deluxe’s call-monitor system, but it’s only blind for like ten minutes a night. They wanted to make sure we got out of that trap okay.”

“Cool,” says Mike. “Right, yes. Cool.”

“…I trust them,” Chuck says pointedly, because he’s somehow picked up the skill of snatching thoughts right out of Mike’s head. Mike winces a little, grinning guiltily. “Seriously, Mikey. I’m not saying the whole department’s cool, but I know who’s got my back.”

“I know! No, I know.”

“Okay, well, cool.” Chuck banishes the empty screen with a flick of his wrist and shoves Mike with his foot. “Move over.”

Mike lets him get settled on the bed and then flops over, lying haphazardly over Chuck’s stomach. He can feel a faint whir against his side, a prickle of something not quite normal.

“…How are you holding up?” Chuck asks eventually.

“ _Bored,_ ” says Mike, and Chuck laughs. “Seriously! I’m dying, I don’t know how colony ships handle this.”

“Most of the population isn’t made up of crazy adrenaline-junkies,” says Chuck sanctimoniously, and scritches at Mike’s back, rubbing between his shoulder blades. “Besides, their ships are way bigger, they’ve got whole complexes for entertainment.  Like flying around on a station.” Mike groans longingly—Chuck laughs. “Come on, dude. You just gotta learn how to chill out for like thirty seconds.”

Mike would normally protest, but dang that feels really good. He grumbles wordlessly instead, maneuvers himself over onto his stomach and presses up into the hand on his back. Chuck laughs at him some more, but he takes the hint and keeps rubbing Mike’s back. And it’s—casual contact isn’t something they’re really _short_ on, but it’s usually just a couple of seconds at a time, not like this. It’s so nice to get to relax into it. He could almost…

—

Mike wakes up, pushes himself blearily off Chuck’s stomach and wanders to the bathroom and back, not bothering to turn on lights, navigating by touch and memory. Chuck shifts when he climbs back onto the bed; mumbles something indistinct and huddles back into his chest as soon as he lies back down. Mike closes his eyes.

—

Mike wakes up because something is hot against his side, almost hot enough to burn. There’s light on his face; Chuck’s scars are lit up. Power races through them in fast pulses as his breathing goes deeper and faster. He’s almost totally silent as he dreams, teeth grinding, but his face is tight and twisted with some awful emotion Mike doesn’t want to name.

One of his wrists is lying against Mike’s side; the seams where his weapons system comes out are half-open. They’re venting hot, bright gusts of ozone, stinging-hot metal standing out from his skin.

Mike wraps an arm around him and squeezes hard, mumbles something— _hey buddy, hey, ‘s just me, it’s Mike…_ and slowly, Chuck goes limp in his arms and relaxes, lights dimming. Mike lets out a long sigh, tries to shift around without waking him up. Closes his eyes again.

—

Mike wakes up and it’s four-thirty AM, and he needs to get up for the AM drill. He starts to move on instinct and then stops, feels a warm arm heavy around him.

“ _…_ Mikey _,_ go back t’sleep,” says Chuck, without opening his eyes.

There’s no Deluxe. No morning announcements, no AM drill. _No world you can run to, Chilton, I’ll hunt you down like the dog you are—_ no officers to impress, no Kane.

Mike settles back down, closes his eyes, and sleeps.

—

By the time he wakes up again, it’s the obscenely late hour of nine AM. Chuck is still passed out, although it looks like whatever bad thing he was dreaming about has finally left him alone. He’s not huddling into Mike anymore, he’s sprawled out across the whole mattress, limbs going everywhere, snoring faintly. His shirt is all twisted up around him like he’s been tossing and turning, and one of his legs is hanging out from under the covers.

…And it’s a good thing they’re untangled, because Mike woke up needing some…privacy.

He manages to climb off the bed without more than a couple of sleepy noises from Chuck, pokes his head out into the hallway and hurries one door down, from Chuck’s room to his. Locks the door, leans on it and finally lets himself reach down and rub the heel of his hand slow and hard against his fly. He can’t remember what he was dreaming about—when he tries to remember, he gets a vague impression of white, and transfer pods, and…oh. The raza terminal? Maybe he was dreaming about the guy he hooked up with the other night.

He closes his eyes, hand still shifting slowly, trying to remember anything about the guy’s face, his voice, the things they did. Was he noisy, quiet? Did he move fast, clumsy from the alcohol, or was he slow and careful? Did Mike’s mouth leave red marks, bruises on his pale skin—

—Shit.

Mike stops, pulls his hand away and catches his breath. That’s not—he can’t do that. He’s not imagining some stranger, and he knows it. He wants to think about the guy he met, but he doesn’t remember what he _looks_ like. Except that…he probably looked something like Chuck, as close as the system could get him. And Chuck was _right there,_ lying next to him, sleepy and half-dressed and—

Mike stops that train of thought dead, rests the back of his head against the door and tries to focus.

…He doesn’t know what he did with the guy he got, either, he can’t get off to it because he doesn’t know what it was. He’s just got what he _wants_ to do, with…somebody, and—god, he’s not doing this again. He’s literally gone and had sex with some other guy, now, he’s not going to jerk off to the thought of turning over in bed and marking up Chuck’s throat. Sucking gently until there are red bruises rising on his collarbones and he’s blinking awake with Mike’s name on his lips, flushed, panting, reaching for him—

This is the last time, Mike promises himself, like he has a hundred times before. He knows he’s lying to himself, even as he crumples back against the wall, staring blindly at the memory of his best friend’s lips, his hands, his bare throat. One more time, just… _one_ more time…

—

If there’s one thing Mike really misses about Deluxe, it’s showers. Hot morning showers with perfect water pressure. Scalding water in brief bursts with crappy pressure really just isn’t the same.

But it’s what they’ve got. Mike splashes off dutifully, shaves, scrubs cleaner through his hair and is out again within a couple of minutes, shivering in the cool air. Someday, they’re going to be rich enough to buy a water recycler with actual good filters. But that’s not today, so Mike’s just going to have to deal with showers that smell faintly of whatever ROTH rehydrated last night.

It's day nine, now, of their ten-day flight. Mike has dug through about every mechanism the Burner has to offer, cleaned every nook and cranny, and played more tattered board-games than he can count. He has also (for the last time, every time) definitely jerked off, like, a _lot_. Thinking about...stuff he's not supposed to be thinking about.

It's just that Chuck's right _there,_ and it's not like the ship is all that big. It's either lock himself up in his room and go crazy, or hang around the rest of the crew and spend most of the day with Chuck's arm around his shoulder, Chuck's legs in his lap or side pressed up against him or— _anything,_ everything, Mike's always gotten stir-crazy when they go more than three or four days without landing. Touching him, being near him, not being able to get out and fight or party or blow off steam or...

Mike’s tried to chat up his mystery partner once or twice—half-thinking to try that..."cybering" thing. But the stranger seems to be distracted, and Mike doesn't really know how to bring it up. Are you supposed to just...suggest it? Does it matter when? Are you supposed to cyber at night? What if it's not night where Mike's mystery guy is, and it looks weird?

So anyway. It's nice to talk to somebody outside the ship sometimes, but the conversations don't really go anywhere. They can't really start making plans, because Mike isn't going to drop for at least another day and he has no idea what the guy is up to. It's just nice to talk to his mystery guy, and reassure himself that he's not making it up. Tonight, though, sometime tonight or tomorrow, he's dropping out of FTL and he's gonna finally get out of the ship and work off some steam!

Mike has retreated to his quarters again, after a game of charades that kind of turned into a riot. Texas had shoved Chuck over for correcting him on the rules, right over on top of Mike. For a second or two he'd been half in Mike’s lap, a warm, angular weight, solid and heavy and warm and _real._ For a second, Mike wanted to wrap his arms around Chuck’s waist and keep him from pulling away. Mike's trying not to think about and it's.  Really hard.

So. Might as well make a call.

Mike picks up his comm screen and starts arduously going through the weird sign-in process to get to his untraceable line. He's most of the way through typing in his password, poking at one letter at a time, when a signal pops up on his screen.

_...Connecting..._

_...Connecting..._

_...Connected_

_?: I'm so ready to not be cooped up on this ship for once._

Mike has to laugh because geez, how perfect is that? They must be running on pretty close schedules.

_M: YUP_

_M: been flying way way too long_

_?: God, yeah._

_?: I'm bringing us down a stop early, I literally just can't take this anymore._

Doesn't sound like he's interested in consulting anybody—did Mike score a ship's captain? Mike's cool with Chuck and ROTH making whatever choices about the flight plan, but most captains are real sticklers. So, he's smart, he's funny, and he's got his own ship. _Nice._

For just a second Mike's mind catches on the image of a faceless guy sitting on the deck of a KaneCom Destroyer, light gleaming on his Star-and-Sabres badge as he types to Mike. But—no. This guy doesn't talk like a soldier. KaneCom can follow Mike a lot of places, but an anonymous mind-wipe hookup service probably isn't one of them.

_M: gonna make it work this time_

_M: blow ur mind_

_M: ………+ probably other stuff_

_?: Oh my god._

_?: Okay, well, when are you dropping out of FTL?_

Mike starts to type, then stops, frowning. He doesn't actually really know, apart from the rough estimate Chuck gave everybody when they first jumped.

_M: probly like.............2000 tonight? Or like 0800 tomorrow, I dont remember_

_?: You mean Universal Standard Time, right?_

Holy crap he writes the whole abbreviation out, that’s so freakin’ cute. Mike takes a second to laugh, shake his head, and then swings his legs over the side of the bed and stretches.

_M: y the heck would i give u planet time, dude??? haha_

_M: ye its UST_

_?: Like I'm supposed to get the way your brain works!_

_?: You don't make any sense, you weirdo._

_?: If you made sense you wouldn't like me, which you apparently do._

_?: Besides I've always got to make sure, remember?_

_M: nope_

_?: ???_

_?: Oh._

_?: Oh my god, don't say it._

_M: i DONT remember!!_

_?: You're literally the worst._

Then, before Mike can keep teasing him,

_?: We're dropping out in three or four hours, here. You should get some sleep, and I'll meet you at nine. Universal Standard Time._

_M: 2100 got it_

_M: man im seriously glad we got UST or itd be real hard t get 2gether_

_?: Yeah, no kidding._

_?: Fuck, if everybody was just stumbling around on a bunch of different planetary times, we’d have to just tell each other where we were and get together in person like NORMAL people._

_?: God forbid._

Mike snorts and shakes his head.

_M: ur cute_

_M: see u tonight_

_M: ill message if im not make it at 2100_

_?: It’s a date._

—

Mike doesn't usually nap, but he actually manages it this time. By the time he wakes up, overflowing with new energy and raring to go, the ship has been landed for hours, the rest of the crew has dispersed to stock up, and Mike's got fifteen minutes to get down to the terminal for his date. He checks the clock and immediately jumps up to root through his closet for something that looks at least slightly nicer than his normal clothes. Then he realizes his guy isn't gonna remember what he looks like when he leaves. Then remembers that even if he doesn't remember, Mike's still gotta make a good impression and he wants to impress the dude. Then remembers he's going to take his clothes off before he goes through anyway, and just throws on the first thing he sees.

He's fully prepared for somebody to jump him as he picks his way through the city they’ve landed in. Every couple of blocks he’ll pass somebody wearing blue or white and do a double-take, expecting young men in blue and white body-armor to come melting out of the crowd. But he actually makes it there with no issues, and swings into the terminal with a couple of minutes to spare. The computer runs through the same series of questions as last time, and Mike strips off quickly and settles down in the pod, checking the clock one last time as he goes. 2055. Okay, awesome. Now he’s just gotta…think about who he wants.

…who he wants…

—

.

**Session 2**

.

—

Mike feels _awesome_ when he wakes up, which is probably a good sign. His hair is damp when he sits up, like the pod washed him down while he was out; he still feels flushed and pleasantly sore, like he just finished a workout. And the time is…oh, okay, cool! He’s only been in here like an hour and a half. There’s no pings from the rest of the crew and Chuck hasn’t messaged him, either, which means he’s gotten whatever he wanted to do done without needing Mike’s help. Mike...knew he would. Was pretty sure. No, that sounds bad, even inside his own head. He knew Chuck could handle it, and he's glad to see he was totally right.

He sends a quick _u still good?_ message anyway, pulls on his clothes and his coat, and ducks out into the bright, red-gold glow of the city's streetlights.

The planet they ended up retreating to is a border planet, but one of the successful ones—which means it's far enough away from Deluxe that the city and buildings are totally different from what Mike's used to, but it isn't as much of a seedy mess as some of the outer planets are. There's local law enforcement hanging around—  Mike nods politely to them as he passes, and eventually ends up stopping and talking to one of them; a lady in a long, dark red coat and a badge made out of some kind of shiny black rock. She seems to like him just fine once she stops being suspicious—most people do, for some reason—and Mike walks away with a new friend and some good advice about the best places to eat and buy supplies. She doesn't know anything about who might be hiring for jobs, but she got him a few recommendations on where to look, and that's not nothing!

A holoscreen pops up in front of him. Mike stops, blinking at it. _JULIE is pinging for your location. Allow?_

Oh, right. The others were out when he left, they're probably back at the ship wondering where he is right now. Mike nods; the screen winks out again and he feels a familiar, weird tingling spark under one ear, prickling at the scar from his comm surgery. Agh.

Mike is still standing there like a dope, scratching at it and grimacing, when a voice calls "—oh hey he's totally right here, Texas found him! Hey! Hey, Mike!"

"ROTH said you might be somewhere around here!" says Dutch, jogging up in Texas's wake. He stares around, raises his eyebrows. "...Y'know there are nicer places to buy drinks and get in fights, right? Like, you can get in fights for _money_ here. _Legally_."

"You totally can," says Texas, kind of stuffy. There's a piece of paper sticking out of his nose, and his shirt has bright red splatters on it. He looks sweaty and satisfied with himself. Behind his back, Julie rolls her eyes. “Texas won, did _you_ win?”

"Uh, yeah," says Mike. "I was in a fight."

"Okay...?" Julie is giving him that look that means she's somehow read his mind and knows he's lying. Mike doesn't know how she always does that, it's freaky. Her eyes flicker up and down his body—Mike is suddenly, keenly aware that his T-shirt is still untucked and he’s still flushed and worked up. The longer she stares at him, the hotter his face feels.

He's saved from having to think of some made-up details about his nonexistent fight by the sound of hurrying feet behind him. Texas looks past him and waves with a whoop that makes half the street jump and stare at him. "Oh, hey, you're down here too! Didja see Tiny's fight?"

"Fight?" Chuck sounds out of breath—his voice cracks on the word. "Mikey!"

"I'm fine, dude!" says Mike, and turns to grin at him. Chuck glares back at him, rumpled and frazzled. His hair is a mess, almost all the way out of its ponytail. He looks _amazing_. Mike clears his throat and shrugs, keeping his smile in place, pretending a familiar giddy twinge of want didn't just sting at him. "No big deal."

"It _is_ a big deal!" says Chuck indignantly. "If you get arrested—!"

"I'm not gonna get _arrested,_ " says Mike patiently. "It's cool, fighting's legal here."

"It’s not just legal, it’s, like, _big_ ," Dutch puts in. "Like, _everybody_ watches the fights. The prizes are huge."

"Best planet _ever!_ " Texas says. "Let's just stay here, this place is the _bomb!_ "

Chuck snorts and rolls his eyes—reaches up self-consciously, glancing around like he's hoping none of the others are watching and combs his hair into order with his fingers.

...Mike _is_ watching, though, which is why he sees the second and a half where Chuck ducks his head forward and gathers the hair off the nape of his neck and oh, wow, okay, that's definitely a hickey.

"...So where did you go, man?" Dutch says, and Chuck jumps and quits messing with his hair. "You were gone forever."

"Shopping,” says Chuck, too fast. “Just—walking around, y’know.”

Julie turns her x-ray eyes on him instead, and this time it's Chuck's turn to go red. He looks...ruffled, and his hair was in a mess and there's hickeys on his neck and oh. Oh, okay.

So, Chuck goes out and hooks up with people sometimes. That's—well, good for him! That's totally cool. It's not like Mike wasn't also hooking up with somebody, although at least Chuck's definitely too smart to use the raza terminal again. That stuff can be dangerous.

...It's not like hooking up with different people at different stops isn't dangerous _too,_ though, is the problem. Sure, people tell horror stories about the mindwipe terminals getting used by trafficking rings, so they can take the real body while it's out. Or mobs that override the memory wipe and use it to torture and interrogate people without killing their real bodies. But there's a computer system watching, and Mike's heard it'll call law enforcement on you if you do something messed up in there. And everybody's using copied bodies, so even if the computer detects an STI nobody's gonna share it around.

How did Chuck even find somebody to hook up with, when he can't talk to strangers without apologizing fifty times a minute? Is that why his combat protocols turned on last time they were at a station? Was he out trying to find somebody to spend the night with, did they try to—

"Mike?"

“Huh?”

“You okay?” Dutch says, like he’s repeating himself. Mike shrugs, shoves his hands in his pockets and tries not to worry about it. It’s—Chuck’s the same age as Mike, he knows what he’s doing. It’s not Mike’s job to keep him safe.

…It kind of is. Mike is his captain. But Chuck wouldn’t want to hear that, and Mike doesn’t know how to tell him _it’s not like I don’t think you can handle yourself, it’s just—_

“Let’s just get home,” he says. “Bet ROTH is missing us.”

“You just spent like two weeks trying to get _off_ the ship!” Chuck says, half-laughing, and falls in next to him. Mike puts an arm around his shoulders, almost on automatic. “You’ve only been out for an hour or two and you wanna go right back in?”

“It’s been longer than that!” Mike protests, but he lets himself be turned back around. “…What kind of prizes?”

“For the fights?” Texas rummages around in his bag and yanks out a fat stack of credits. Mike’s eyebrows rise. “Boom! Who’s captain _now?!_ ”

“Still Mike,” says Dutch, and “ _Definitely_ still Mike,” Chuck echoes immediately afterward.  Julie is laughing, shaking her head.

Man, Mike’s crew is the best. He’s so freaking lucky, and he’s not gonna mess it up and tick anybody off. No point in rocking the boat. Anyway, Chuck’s probably got it out of his system, and everything can go back to normal now. It’s not like it’s gonna happen again.


	5. 4 - Quarrelsome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crew of a small spaceship is like a family: loud, annoying, entirely too far into each other's business, hypocritical, full of little white lies. Supportive, protective, united when it counts.  
> It still sucks when they fight, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of sessions in this one, so obligatory reminder; in the same way the boys can't remember what they've been doing, y'all don't have access to the information either! ~~yet ;)~~

Chuck's been getting a lot of migraines recently.

Mike's never really known what to do when those happen. There are drugs that help, but they don't usually have access to them, and they don't play nicely with Chuck's implants. He's seemed kinda down for a while now, too, which makes Mike feel bad, which makes him even worse at hanging out and cheering Chuck up.  Chuck seems really stressed and snappish, defensive.  He gets upset and offended over stuff he used to shrug off, he doesn't want to hang out with the crew anymore.  It comes and goes, and sometimes he's so normal it feels like Mike must have imagined the other times.  Occasionally, he actually seems to be in a good mood, like, a  _really_ good mood.

The last time that happened, of course, being right after he went out and did...whatever he was doing. 

Mike knows exactly what Chuck was doing, god, he's just being a baby about it.  He's gotta stop.  But some part of him can't stop wondering if this, this thing Chuck's doing sometimes now, is part of what's up.  If somebody out there is messing with him, being an asshole to him, or—something—and if that's what it is, Mike should probably say something, right?  Like, as a friend, as a captain--he should say something.

But he doesn't know what to say, and Mike's never been good at words, so he just tries not to worry about it. It's always sad and weird, whenever Mike and Chuck get out of sync, but it's happened before and it'll probably happen again. They always figure it out.

He definitely knows he's not imagining it, though.  Chuck's definitely been acting… _different,_ since the crew's one-year anniversary.  Just little things-more headaches, yeah, but he's also more aggressive when they spar, more careless when he's flying, more…reckless. Not that Mike's got a right to talk, he knows. Chuck's finally willing to fly the shuttle in a barrel roll like Mike's been trying to get him to do forever. But it's weird.

At least Chuck hasn't vanished off the ship again since the first night they were in town. Not that Mike's seen, anyway, and he's been keeping an eye out.

Mike has spent _years_ steadily ignoring the fact that he's not the only one on the ship with a sex drive, and he's not the only person on the ship who occasionally goes out and does something crazy. It seems like now that there's a whole ship full of them it should be easier to avoid thinking about Chuck and sex and—those two things in the same place. But it's just gotten harder and harder instead.

If Chuck was here he would snicker at that innuendo and poke fun at Mike for it. But he's not. He's out with Julie, window-shopping for parts or comparing arm upgrades or whatever it is they do when they hang out together. Having his own life, doing his own thing. And if Mike had any brains he would go and do the same thing instead of sitting around here moping like a loser in a mostly-empty spaceship.

That's enough worrying about his best friend. Mike pushes himself up, and goes to see a familiar stranger.

—

.

**Session 3**

.

—

Hiding out is galling and frustrating, but at least they're hiding out on a planet. They're not in space anymore, crammed onto a small ship and just handling the proximity. If Mike wants to sneak away and meet up with some dude from somewhere in the galaxy, he totally can.

It doesn't go unnoticed, though.

"So," says Julie the next morning—casual, just the two of them hanging out in the rec room. "Are you gonna bring them home to meet the crew, or...?"

"Oh," says Mike. "I—who?"

Julie doesn't even answer, just raises her eyebrows at him and waits. Mike squirms under the force of that look for a minute, then sighs and gives in.

"...I don't know who he is," he says, and he's trying really hard not to sound guilty but it's hard not to. He always feels like a recruit at a disciplinary hearing when Julie gives him that look. "I've got his line, and we...meet up at the raza terminals. For...stuff."

"Oh, for _stuff_ ," says Julie glibly. "Well say no more."

Mike gives her a pleading look. Julie smirks at him.

"So," she says, "It's a him."

There's really no reason for it to be embarrassing that he let that slip, but somehow it really is. It's like being twelve again, living in the junior cadets' barracks and getting mercilessly teased for any sign of a crush. "Well," Mike says, "Uh. Yeah! Yeah, he...is. He's a pretty cool guy. I think."

"You think?"

"I mean, yeah!" Mike shrugs self-consciously. "Y'know, raza. He could be halfway across the galaxy. Heck, he could be a mass-murderer, Galaxy's Most Wanted or something. But I don't think so, I mean—I... I really like him."

Julie pats him on the back. "At least you know it's dumb," she says, and then relents at the agonized look Mike gives her. "Look. Have you tried just…asking for his real net handle? Face-to-face chatting, anything like that. You don't have to dive right in to meeting each other."

"...Yeah." Mike sighs. "If he wants to date a wanted merc with the whole Kane Combine after him. I dunno, maybe...maybe we shouldn't meet each other. Maybe we should just keep going the way we are, and...and just not..."

"Rock the boat?" Julie suggests dryly. Mike nods, and Julie sighs and pats his shoulder. "I can understand that. Just...and I can't believe I'm saying this to you, but—sometimes you gotta just go for it, y'know?"

"Ha!" Mike throws an arm around her shoulder, squeezes her and gives her an affectionate shake. "Yeah, yeah. I gotcha. I'll think about it, okay?"

-

Chuck's been doing a lot of thinking, these days.

He's been doing some talking, too, which feels weird but...actually kind of makes him feel better.

"So you don't know who he is," Dutch says, and pries at a panel in the wall of the engine block, trying to get his fingernails under there. "Oof. You don't know what he does, where he lives, what he looks like..."

"It sounds bad when you say it like that," Chuck mumbles.

"It's not _great_ however you say it," Dutch says, and holds out a hand. "Gimme my—yeah. Look, do you think he's licensed or what?"

"Licensed?" Chuck wrinkles his nose.

"Security," Dutch corrects himself. " _Licensed for discipline_ , it's— Sorry. Guess that's a 3-TT thing. I mean, you think he's KaneCom?"

"Mm." It's so weird, talking to somebody who talks _almost_ like the R&D Chuck's used to. Dutch grew up on the same continent, but his city was far to the west, almost on the border. "I don't think so."

"You didn't have somethin' to call the SecFor guys when they were hangin' around?" Dutch clicks his tongue at the panel he's trying to pry up. "Hand me the stick."

Chuck grabs the magnet clamp and hands it over. "We called them boots. Shining your boots, that was sucking up to the patrol guys. Getting your boots dirty—"

"Yeah, pretty sure I can guess," Dutch says dryly, and presses the magnet to the metal, gives it a stern whap with the heel of his hand and grins as it glows into life. "Wherever there's SecFor and R&D in the same place they're gonna, ha, _use their license._ But you don't figure he is one?"

"No, he seems—cool." Chuck shrugs uncomfortably. "I mean, but that's all I've got about him! And if he met me in person he probably wouldn't be really…I mean, I'm not super impressive in person…"

"He's got a good scan on you already, though," Dutch points out, and pulls the panel open. "Here, gimme eyes. Look, you already know he's down, that's not really the problem. Dude could be anybody. Dude could be from anywhere! I mean heck, if Psycheros is as good as they say they are, that could be _Kane_ and you wouldn't know."

" _Agh,_ " says Chuck, and shoves Dutch's shoulder reprovingly. "No come on, dude, _gross._ "

"Sorry. You feel me, though."

"Pretty sure I'd recognize Kane."

"But you _wouldn't_!" Dutch waves a hand in the air, grinning. "Think about walkin' into a room with Kane and not even knowin' who he was, that's so—"

"Creepy?" Chuck cuts in. "Horrifying? You're kinda forgetting about the next part, which is where me and _Abraham Kane_ get _naked_ and—"

"Yeah, yeah, I gotcha." Dutch grimaces, holding his hands up in surrender. "…I'm just sayin', the kind of neuro-tech that went into makin' those things, _wow_. Kinda want to try it, but..."

"But you're taken," Chuck finishes for him, and pulls up a screen. "Yeah yeah, I know."

"Pretty crazy," Dutch concludes, and nudges a wire carefully with a knuckle. "...Man. What would you even _do_ if it turned out to be something like that? Kane or something?"

"The number of people that use those terminals—like, around the clock, around the universe?" Chuck snorts. "The odds of hitting somebody you've ever even seen before in your whole life are one in a million."

-

Three days later, Mike gets jumpy again.

It's starting to feel easier—just send a message, set up a time, make his excuses and slip out. Most of the time when he's told people he's going out to sign up for fight money, he means it! This place is _wild,_ and the fighting rings are some crazy stuff. But this time he's got something...different in mind.

Everything is going smoothly, too, until he swings around the corner to walk out of the ship and almost runs into Chuck.

"Oh!" says Chuck, high-pitched and squawky, "Oh! Mike! Hi!"

Mike was about to apologize and keep on walking—that tone makes him stop, half-smiling. "...You okay, buddy?"

"Yyeah," says Chuck. "I mean, yeah! It's all...good?"

Okay, well, Mike may not be the brightest star in the system, but that is 100% a lie. "You sure?" He glances over at the open door. "...Headed out?"

"Yeah, sure, I'm just gonna go—" Chuck shrugs, like he's trying to play it casual-and fails pretty badly. He looks _mortified_. "I just—some guy I met—  It's no big deal."

Shock hits like a punch in the gut. Mike stares for a second, groping for words, startled and confused and stupidly, irrationally upset. "Guy?" He manages to repeat, finally. "Who?"

"Just some guy!" Chuck says, defensive now at the sudden change of Mike's tone. And okay, the fact that he doesn't want to tell Mike isn't making him feel any better about what this "guy" is probably like. "Does it matter?"

"Yeah, it does!" Mike's trying to keep his voice level, but he knows Chuck hears the frustration behind it. "Look, we're undercover here, okay? There's all sorts of people looking for—"

"You think I'm gonna get us caught?"

"Not—on _purpose—_ "

"Yeah, because not being careful enough is _totally_ my problem," Chuck says. The sarcasm in his voice makes Mike bristle, shoulders tensing. Usually Chuck's the one going " _hey be careful out there_ ", and Mike never gets nasty about that! There's no reason for Chuck to get touchy right now. "I'm going! End of story, Mike, I can if I want to."

And Mike has to get going too, but he's _safe_ using the terminal. Wherever Chuck is going, to—to do whatever he's gonna—he's not safe, and if something goes south he's gonna be in serious trouble!

"Bye," says Chuck coolly, and pushes past him. There's no rational thought involved when Mike turns after him, reaches out and snags his wrist.

"Wait."

Chuck's hand flexes, scarred seams pulsing. He doesn't answer, doesn't look back. Mike grits his teeth, resisting the urge to shake his best friend bodily by both shoulders until he stops—until he _stops_.

"Look," he says, as steadily as he can. "I'm—  I'm just trying to look out for you."

"That's great," says Chuck. "Except I don't need you to look out for me!"

"Okay!" Mike forces himself to let go, takes two sharp steps back. "Fine, sure! Do whatever. I'm just worried, okay?" He drags a hand down his face. "I don't know if you're safe, I don't—  Listen, whatever. It's fine."

"Mike—"

"It's fine. Ignore me, just…just head out before it gets dark, already."

"No, don't even start doing that!" Chuck's face is going red now, embarrassment warring with anger. "No! This isn't—  'Oh Mike is the bigger guy he's gonna let Chuck keep messing up to let him learn his lesson', I'm right! I'm not a kid and you can't tell me—"

"I'm trying to let you go do whatever you want!"

"You don't have to let me do anything!"

"I know!"

"Well you're not acting like it!"

"Whatever!" Mike grits his teeth, tries to force his voice lower—it doesn't really work. "I'm supposed to take care of you guys , you never had a problem with that before, but if that's a problem now just go—  Go screw this guy, whatever!  I hope he's everything you wanted!"

"He is!" Chuck snaps, and he's scarlet to the shoulders now but he's also drawn up to his full height with rage, hands clenched into fists at his sides. "I will! Fuck you!"

—

.

**Session 4**

.

—

Chuck wakes up feeling disorientingly better than he did when he lay down. The pod is cool and white, the familiarity of the computer's voice is comforting. The constant, low-level headache that's been percolating in his skull for the past couple of days is almost gone, although god knows it'll probably be back within the hour. He's still kind of annoyed with Mike, but it's not the irrationally intense, knee-jerk anger it was before. Now he's just…fondly irritated. _We're undercover here._ Geez, like Chuck doesn't know that.

He walks out of the door of the terminal already making plans, planning arguments and counter-arguments in his head, turns the corner without looking where he's going, and walks straight into Mike.

"Whoa, sorry!" Mike says, and then "Hey—" and then "Chuck?!"

"Wh—  Mike!" Chuck sputters for a second, startled and embarrassed, then manages, "Were you _following_ me?!"

"What?! No!" Mike looks equally startled, like the thought is completely ridiculous. His eyes flicker back around the corner, at the subdued façade of the building Chuck just walked out of. Chuck's heart sinks; Mike's eyes widen, flicker back to him. "You were at—?" And then, before Chuck can get defensive, before the anger and the headache have a chance to spike back up again, Mike shakes his head, like he's shaking the thought away. Smiles painfully. "…No. No, dude, I'm, y'know…overprotective, but I'm not…I didn't know you were here."

There's a moment of silence. Neither of them can quite look at the other one. Chuck tries focusing on Mike's chin instead, and then abruptly _stops_ focusing there when a faint bruise under Mike's jaw draws his eye. Oh. Okay, so…okay, Mike decided to go pick somebody up too. That's— _cool_ , that's great. Geez, he probably just walked into the nearest bar and got six or eight offers on the spot. Goddammit.

"So, what were you up to?" Chuck asks, pointed, and this time it's Mike's turn to flush.

"Nothing much," he says, and then, fast and loud like he's desperate to change the subject, "How was...it? Uh. He? She?"

God. Okay, well, Mike has obviously figured out where he was. Fuck it.

"Fine," says Chuck. "I don't know. I can't remember, remember?"

"Uh-huh," says Mike. By the look on his face he's regretting his choice of new topic already, but he soldiers on, "…So, did you, uh…"

"I don't remember," Chuck repeats, and Mike nods and crosses his arms, still pink-cheeked, not meeting his eyes. He looks so miserable and so embarrassed, it's almost funny. Chuck sighs, rolls his eyes, and gives up. "Mike, it's okay."

Mike slumps all over, transparently relieved. "You—  Are you sure?"

"It's _fine._ " It's not 100% fine, but…he should've known Mike would say something about the whole… _hookup_ thing eventually. He worries. A lot, about everybody, but especially about Chuck. That's just how it works. "If I could remember I'd tell you about the whole thing though. You deserve it."

"Uh, yeah," says Mike, and laughs. His face is even redder. That's good, he deserves to be embarrassed. "Jeez, thank goodness for memory wipes. Ha."

The silence as they walk back to the ship isn't exactly normal, but it's not as weird as Chuck would have thought it was going to be. Mike slides an arm around his shoulders cautiously, and Chuck slumps carefully down so he doesn't have to stretch. They walk the rest of the way in convivial silence, and for the first time in a couple of days it feels like things are finally kind of okay.

-

The next morning, Mike is nowhere to be found.

Chuck thinks it's his imagination, at first.  Mike is a busy dude, especially now that they're on a world where Mike gets rewarded for kicking butt in a fight. But the next day Mike is still on the run, jogging in and out of the ship, saying quick hellos and hasty goodbyes, and it's definitely not Chuck's imagination, now.

"Why is Mike avoiding you?" Julie wants to know, after lunch.

"He's not," says Chuck firmly, and closes one of his screens, handing the part he was reprogramming back to Dutch. "Try that. He's not avoiding me."

"You guys fighting or something?" Dutch fits the part in—the fridge beeps and groans. "…Nope, that ain't it. What about the compressor, did you look at that yet?"

"We're not fighting either. Give it here."

"They're definitely fighting," says Texas, and readjusts his grip on the fridge. "Can I put it down yet? Texas is real bored right now."

"No, keep it there." Dutch reaches underneath and twists his arm awkwardly, tugging at the part he needs. "—Actually, tilt it more? Never saw you guys avoid each other like this before."

Texas rolls his eyes and follows orders. "Lover's quibble," he says knowledgeably, as he hauls the fridge over on its corner. "Seen it before."

"It's 'lover's quarrel'," Julie says. "Keep it tilted up! you're gonna squish Dutch."

"Don't squish Dutch!" Dutch says, from under the fridge. "Do _not_ squish Dutch!"

"I ain't gonna!"

"We're not quarreling!" Chuck says hotly, and snatches the compressor out of Dutch's hand as he holds it out. "And we're not _lovers_. It's a—  A best friends...disagreement."

"Believable," says Dutch mildly, as Chuck buries himself in angry coding.

"So, _whatever's_ happenin', though," Texas persists, "If you guys break up— _friend_ break up, skinny, don't get your warp jammed—what do we do? Who gets the boat?"

The thought that this isn't just a passing, awkward disagreement, that Mike might _stop being friends with him_ over this—  It freezes Chuck in place. Dutch seems to read the way he's feeling by whatever his face is doing, because he swats Texas's leg from under the fridge. "No way," he says firmly.

"I mean yeah, but you don't know what's up with Mike!" Texas says stubbornly, and pokes Dutch back with a toe. "You _just said,_ like, 'I never saw you guys fight before'!"

"It's not a fight!" Chuck says, and swallows hard, trying to stamp down the fear in his gut. "…It's…we just—  He'll come around. It's fine."

"You sure?" Texas squints at him. "You don't sound sure, that's all I'm sayin'—"

"He _will,_ " says Chuck again, and it sounds stronger this time, surer. Saying it solidifies the feeling inside him.  This will be fine. They'll be fine. It'll blow over eventually, like everything else ever has. "Trust me. I know Mike."

—

.

**Session 5**

.

—

If there's one thing Mike really doesn't like about the raza terminals, it's the way he wakes up with the last remnants of… _stuff,_ just floating around in his head. Like this time, when he wakes up with a feeling of resolve, a steady certainty of… _something._ The rest of him feels warm and comfortable and relaxed, and not in a worked-out kind of way—Mike sits there for a minute or two, letting himself imagine a long, quiet, liquid span of time. Going easy with someone (pale and lean and freckled and expressive, hands in his hair-), feeling good, not in a hurry.

Half of him thinks that sounds incredibly boring, half of him kind of...aches at him longingly. Mike sighs, shakes his head and shoves himself forward off the edge of the transfer pod, swinging on his coat.

He splurges a little bit to eat a late lunch at a restaurant, cross-legged on cushions out on the patio under scattered clouds. The weather on this part of the planet is temperate and windy, huge walls leaning over every building to break up the worst of storms that would otherwise tear buildings apart.  There's no storm today though; just a strong, steady breeze that sends the clouds gusting eagerly across the horizon. 

Mike sits and eats and enjoys the push and pull of the wind, the way it whips the hem of his coat and ruffles his bangs like a playful friend.  Weather on Deluxe was announced in advance at the beginning of the day— _your regularly-scheduled rainfall will occur in fifteen minutes, please return to your homes—_ and he never gets tired of real _weather._ Strong wind, blazing sunshine, wild, unexpected thunderstorms.

For a while, as he's sitting there, it's like there's nothing to worry about at all. Julie's dangerous double life, Dutch's family back in KaneCom territory, Texas's wild nights out. Chuck's weird, closed-off recklessness. It's all fine, right now. It feels like just about anything could work out fine.

By the time he wanders back to the ship, it's almost dinner time. Chuck is perched up on one of the fins, talking to somebody in that special tone of voice he uses when he's playing that weird pretending game he doesn't want Mike to know he plays. Mike slows down, listens for a second to the distant sound of his voice. Shakes his head, smiling, and ducks inside.

Dutch is the first person he sees, wandering leisurely through the hold and reading the inventory labels to ROTH for him to catalog. They both spare a second to wave to Mike as he goes, and he waves back—pokes his head into Texas's workout room to cheer him through a couple of reps, then wanders down to the sleeping quarters in search of Julie. He's been wondering for a while about Deluxe, how it's changed, what things are like there right now, and right now he even feels like he can handle hearing the answer.

Julie's in her room, which is pretty normal for her, but she's still in her transfer pod, which isn't. Mike sidles awkwardly into her room with a brief rap on the door, doing his best not to touch anything, and then jumps as Julie shifts and makes a soft sound in the dark.

Mike's about to back up, apologize for poking his head in while she was busy, but she's not actually waking up. She just shifts again, sighs.

"Mm—   _Nnh,"_ she mumbles, and shivers. "...Claire…" Her head tips back; her face looks flushed in the dark, her eyelashes flutter. Her back arches off the pod, muscle tensing in his stomach as her hips lift and rock and settle.

Oh. Well. _Oh._

Mike backs hastily out of the door, closes it behind him and stares at the blank metal for a long, long second. His heart is suddenly pounding in his throat, his face feels hot. His thoughts keep backtracking, replaying, trying to imagine the circumstances on the other end of Julie's connection. Somewhere in her other body—  Somewhere in _Deluxe,_ she's...

This is the absolute last thing he needs to think about right now. Julie is busy. Mike takes the details of exactly what she's busy doing and shoves them deep, deep down in his brain. He should have waited after he knocked, he should've— He needs distractions. He needs to get his head on straight.

Mike manages a couple of hours on a flight simulator before he gets tired of dodging digital minefields and computer-generated asteroid belts. He tries, he really does, but the simulations are never as hard as he wants them to be, and without the urgency of reality it's not nearly as interesting. Eventually he sighs, flops back on his bunk and pulls up a different screen.

"Jacob."

The comm blinks and whirrs for a minute, calling over the vast distance between them.  Then, finally, a familiar face fizzles into life. " _Hey!"_ says Jacob, and reaches out to straighten his screen with oven-mitted hands. " _What's up, kid?"_ He squints suspiciously at the screen. " _…What, is somebody dyin'? You never call!_ "

Mike has to laugh. "Nah," he says. "Just looking for somebody to talk to."

" _Oh yeah?_ " Jacob pulls his oven mitts off, tucks them into the tie of his apron and pulls an almost comically large spoon from somewhere off-screen. " _About what?_ "

"Well..."

Mike doesn't intend to tell him everything—just to update him, let him know how the planet he sent them to is doing, how they're all doing in their weird exile-but Jacob just keeps nodding and making encouraging noises and going _yeah I bet!_ and _aw, dang,_ and somehow the things he didn't plan on talking about come spilling out of his mouth before he can stop them.

"— _Always_ been my job to look out for people, y'know? Chuck keeps us from getting into messes, and if we get in a mess I get everybody out. But all of a sudden he's going running into messes without looking, and I'm supposed to just stand back and let him? He's gonna get hurt."

" _Mmhm,_ " says Jacob thoughtfully.

"He's never minded when I looked out for him before! I mean, and it's not just me, he's been snapping at everybody!"

" _Mmhm."_

"He seems happier when he's talking to his buddies back on Deluxe than when he's around us," Mike finishes morosely, and slumps back on the pillows. Hesitates for a second, then admits, quiet and hoarse, "...I just, I wonder, sometimes, y'know, it's dumb, but—  What if he'd be happier if I hadn't—"

" _...Saved him from that hellhole lab he was stuck in?_ " Jacob says pointedly. Mike sighs, scrubs his hands at his face.

"Yeah, I mean, but—"

" _You think he'd rather be under the knife gettin' metal shoved in his skull than out there flyin' with you?_ "

"But he had—"

" _Look, Mike._ " Jacob leans forward to the screen, fixing him with a sudden, sharp look. " _This ain't about Deluxe. This ain't about the cyborg thing, or you bein' his captain. You're freakin'_ kids _. The only way to sort all that crap out is to live through it. Handle it. Talk it out."_

"He doesn't want to talk to me."

" _Then just give him time until he does,_ " says Jacob solidly. Maybe he sees the miserable uncertainty in Mike's expression, because he sighs and shakes his head. " _...Look. You know how he is, he's always got all sortsa bad news banging around in his head, even before they chopped his brain up. Just let him know you're there to help out, if he wants you."_

"What if he never does?" Mike says, and he sees Jacob open his mouth to answer, then stop, giving Mike a look that's way too sharp and cuts way too deep.

"... _You can't_ make _him,_ " he says finally. " _But it ain't fair to him to just wait for him to figure it out, neither. You want somethin' from him, you gotta let him know. Just... Now ain't maybe the best time._ "

"Yeah." Mike sighs heavily, shakes his head and manages to pull up a smile. "Thanks, Jacob."

" _You got it, kid. Hope I helped._ "

"I'll talk to him."

" _Then I helped."_ Jacob grins his slightly yellow grin, pulls his oven mitts back out again and grabs his spoon. " _G'wan, get. I've gotta pull this goulash before it gets soggy._ "

"Sure."

Mike sits there staring at the place Jacob's face used to be for a long time, after the comm closes. One part of him is full of a weird excitement, determination—he can talk it out, he can fix it, he'll figure out what's going on and this will all blow over. The other part is...not as sure. This isn't like any other argument he's had with Chuck before. He's not sure he's right, he's not sure why he cares. He's not sure if Chuck is mad at him or embarrassed or both. He's not sure if he has the right to fix this, or if it even needs fixing.

He doesn't want to wait for Chuck to be ready to talk. But he trusts Jacob's judgment more than just about anybody else in the galaxy. And if patience is what it takes...Mike can be patient.

In the meantime, he can at least...distract himself. Right?

_M: hey stranegr u awake_

He briefly considers fixing the typo—Chuck is always laughing at how he types, too fast and dropping half the letters. But then there's a flash and his mystery guy is answering.

_?: Yeah, what's up?_

_?: Bored?_

_M: yea i gess_

_M: just thinking ab u_

_?: Thinking about what?_

_Maybe we should meet up_ , Mike doesn't say. _I'd like to meet you._

He should—  He really needs to say something. The feeling gets stronger every time, he should… _say_ something. He should talk to the mystery guy about this, but…

_…Hey, I might or might not be Public Enemy #1 on the wanted list of the biggest, most violent combine in the universe, that's not a problem, right?_

Mike leans back against the head of the bed, crosses his arms and stares at the blinking cursor.

_M: just ab stuff_

_M: hey so_

_M: u fly in kc territy ever??_

It's not what he wants to say, but it's important. Mike's never been the best at testing the water before he jumps, that's Chuck's job. But if he's gonna make a move with this guy, he needs to know if he's gonna get his entire crew in trouble.

_?: Sometimes._

_?: Not really by choice_

_?: Kane can go die in deep space_

_?: sorry not sorry._

Mike lets out a sharp breath, half-laughing.

_M: no ttly!!! Yea!!!!_

_M: I hate that guy_

_M: hottest thing u evr said to me :D :D :D_

_?: Dork. :)_

_?: Just had to make sure I wasn't some kind of KaneCom fisher first, huh?_

_?: I mean that's fair, I guess_

_?: Does that mean what you're thinking about is that you want to meet up again?_

Oh man, _does_ he.

On some level Mike is aware he's not making the _best_ possible choices, but on the other… It's been a really long time since he's gotten to…do stuff, on any regular basis. And taking care of it himself in the privacy of the ship just brings up dumb thoughts about who's available, who he could be hooking up with instead. Dutch is taken, Texas thinks sex is hilarious and doesn't get why somebody would do it except as a joke. Julie is…Julie, and she's apparently got that handled. Chuck is—

Mike physically freezes where he is, then slaps a hand sharply against one temple as that thought tries to take root. Shakes it off, shoves that deep down in his head. There's a lot of stuff down there, now. A lot of stuff not to think about.

He's left his mystery guy hanging. Mike shakes his head again, frowns at the screen and then picks out,

_M: ye!!_

_M: gotto space it out tho so like_

_M: 2 r 3 days_

_M: early??_

That should give him some time to go out, win some more ring fights, make some money. He's been saving up his spending money from every job for a long time now, mostly because…he doesn't really have anything he wants to spend it on. But now that he's going out and buying raza sessions every week or so, the cost is starting to build up.  He's not going to run out of money any time soon, but he's the captain, he would feel like a total jerk if he spent too much money the crew might need later. 

_?: Yeah, so…..55 hours. 1800 UST?_

1800 UST in a couple days… This planet's days are just a couple hours longer than the old 24-hour earth days that UST is based off of, so that could be just about any time. Mike checks—  Oh. That's ten in the morning. Well, he's not gonna complain.

_M: :D :D :D!!!!!!!_

_M: ill see u ther!_

_?: Yeah_

_?: see you._

—

.

**Session 6**

.

—

Mike gets back to the ship feeling pleasantly tired and a little bit melancholy. It's a cloudy afternoon, watery sun spilling through onto the weird, jagged rock formations this city is built around. It should be pretty—and it is, it's kinda nice-but Mike feels…distracted. Like something is subtly wrong. Like he was upset about something and then forgot what it was. It's especially weird because he's been looking forward to this day ever since he set it up with his mystery guy. But he doesn't feel as fulfilled as he usually does.

He has to knock before ROTH opens the hatch for him, which just adds to the feeling of weirdness. Mike hikes through the hold, full of new cargo for shipping, climbs into the ship proper and finds the other Burners playing a video game. Chuck is lying on the couch with a wet rag over his eyes and his head in ROTH's lap. ROTH looks as attentive as only an android can, petting his hair gently and occasionally popping up a diagnostic.

"Everything okay over there?" says Mike, and ROTH whirrs sadly at him.

"He woke up with a migraine," says Julie, without looking away from the screen. "…I guess he got lonely in his room, though, because he came out here and turned his eyes and ears off. He's been there for hours, poor guy."

ROTH pulls the rag away and hands it to Mike, pointing toward the sink. Mike obediently wets it down fresh, catching a look at Chuck's face as he does.  He looks pale and unhappy, and his eyes are dark and dull through his eyelashes.

"Aw, buddy," he sighs, and gives Chuck's shoulder a comforting squeeze. Chuck jumps at the touch; his hand comes up, touches Mike's, slides blindly over his knuckles and feels out the shape of his fingers. The tension eases back out of him.

"… _Hey, Mike,_ " he says, barely above a whisper.

"Hey, Chuckles," says Mike, even though he knows Chuck can't hear him—he squeezes his shoulder again anyway, and Chuck sighs and reaches up to adjust the rag over his eyes.

"ROTH's taking good care of him," says Dutch fondly, and ROTH salutes.

"Yeah," says Mike, and frowns. There's something nagging at the back of his mind, something he can't put words around. "Well…geez, I hope he wasn't gonna go out and do anything today."

"Do somethin'?" Texas snorts. "What's he gonna go out and do? _Nerd_ stuff. He can do that whenever."

"I…yeah, I dunno." Mike shrugs. "Just sucks to be on-planet and he's stuck in here all day."

"Well, you snooze you lose," says Texas, and whips his digital racecar around a corner, bumper-slamming Julie's car right off the track. "Booyah!"

"Oh, you're gonna regret that," Julie promises, and Mike laughs and gives Chuck's shoulder one more pat before he moves away again, dropping down on the floor to watch the others play their game.


	6. 5 - Cathartic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crew of the Burner gets fancy, and then gets hired; Chuck makes some unexpected new friends, and then makes an unexpected discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some cavalier (but not very gory) discussion of past nonconsensual surgeries in this chapter, starting from somewhere around "I didn't know [KaneCom] still had a program" and ending around "tear the whole thing down". If that's a bad time, please take care of yourself and ctrl+F your way past it. UoU /

It's Texas who ends up finding them their tip-off, weirdly enough. It's on-planet—a cargo company looking for guards on a flight across the continent. The intel leads them out of the city they've been settled in, to one a lot bigger and a lot glitzier, near the coast. The place is pretty incredible to look at, especially in the dark when they get there; towering buildings, hundreds of walkways and tunnels, full of color and blurred by constant, misty rain. An envoy from the shipping company is meeting them at a restaurant on the nicer end of town.

It's a well-paying gig, potentially a whole _series_ of well-paying gigs, from somebody who's too far from Deluxe to care if they're wanted there. So naturally, the entire evening before the meet-up is a lengthy process of showering and shaving and hunting down the dressiest possible clothes from closets and storage units. Texas puts his hair up, and then shoves Chuck down on the couch and does something that turns Chuck's hair into a couple of neat braids down the sides of his head and a tight, neat ponytail. Dutch and Julie team up to wrestle Mike into a chair for long enough for ROTH to trim and brush his hair for him.

The final touches are up to Dutch, mostly because he has the steadiest hands. The fashion in the coastal cities is for plain, dramatic fashion choices and subtle, striking makeup. Therefore, and Chuck doesn't envy him, Dutch is the one who has to deal with Texas's exacting standards for winged eyeliner and make Mike sit still with a makeup pen near his eyes.

"—Thick but not _too_ thick," Dutch mumbles, and pulls his hands away from Mike's face with a flourish. "—or you look like you're tryin' too hard, I guess. But nobody's gonna take you seriously for business if you don't try to look nice." He looks his work over, then grins and nods. "Nice, man."

"I mean, I _guess,_ " says Mike. He looks—well, he looks sharp as hell, but he also looks really disgruntled. It should make him less hot, but the grumpy expression is pretty well balanced out by how sharp he looks, because _god_. Julie has browbeaten him into leaving his favorite leather coat in the ship for this one, and has provided instead a heavy, new black coat she bought for him a couple of stops ago. It's got gold accents and crisp seams and matching black gloves, and Chuck is in hell. "I don't see why what we look like matters. We're mercs, right, we're supposed to look tough!"

"You can look tough and still look stylish as hell," Dutch says firmly, and takes his turn to sit still, closing his eyes as ROTH takes the brush with delicate "fingers". As usual, Dutch has put his own spin on the look; ROTH leans in close and starts to paint hair-thin, glimmering lines of iridescent paint along Dutch's cheekbones. "Sometimes you gotta take the time, man."

"You look okay, I guess," says Texas, and spreads his arms, regarding himself in their only full-length mirror. "…So if they like stuff like this so much around here, why can't Texas just go topless?" He flexes, then pats a tattooed bicep affectionately. "Haha, yeah."

"Because," starts Julie, and then stops. "…Hm. Well, I mean, If we're trying to show off our muscle—"

"That's Texas," Texas puts in, "Texas is your muscle, _hwa-yah!_ "

"Chuck's enhanced, he's 'muscle'," Mike points out, and Chuck jumps at being mentioned and then registers the words and chokes.

"I'm not taking my shirt off!"

"Good thinkin', Tiny," says Texas thoughtfully. "Make Texas look buffer by puttin' him next to the nerd."

"Nobody is taking their shirt off!" Dutch says, and glares around at them all. "Seriously, we _just_ finished getting' makeup squared away, and now you wanna change clothes? We look good the way we are."

They _do,_ too. Chuck is uncomfortable in nice clothes, and even more uncomfortable in makeup—the whole point is to be _noticeable_ , to make people _look_ at you, agh—but he has to admit, as long as all of the others are there too as they head out of the ship and start toward their meet-up, it's…cool. Being cool. Being noticed.

And then Mike starts to walk through the door to the restaurant, and a white field shimmers up and blocks the door.

Mike's hand twitches as a guy in dark, classy-looking body-armor comes striding over, one hand resting casually on a very visible stun baton. The entire group shifts, just slightly, ready for a fight, but the man just stops, looking them over, scarred face impassive.

 _"…_ This is a peaceful establishment," he growls, heavy and rote like he's said it before. "Weapons to the desk." He pauses, and his eyes rake over the group. "…Androids and cyborgs, step outside."

Oh.

It's not a surprise, or it shouldn't be—not in a city, not in an expensive restaurant, not for a legitimate business meeting instead of a back-alley deal. Chuck really shouldn't be surprised anymore, but the sick stab of shock and shame comes on regardless.

"My crew has an invitation," says Mike, because Mike always, _always_ gets flinchy and touchy and aggressive when people point out the cyborg thing. Chuck's tried to talk to him about it, tell him it'd be easier if he would let it slide sometimes, that Chuck's _okay_ , or at least that putting up a fight about it just makes it worse—it never seems to get through Mike's head. Right now, for example, he's shifting his weight like he intends to fight this guy with biceps as big as Texas's and a whole array of interesting scars. "My _whole_ crew."

"Mm." The bouncer crosses his arms, unimpressed. "…Inquiry. Augmentation percentage."

There are some commands that require an override, and there are some that are…harder to ignore. For a second, Chuck considers trying to fight the urge to answer, but…but even if the others drop their weapons, his weapons system is embedded into his arms. There's no way the field won't pick up on it when he tries to go through.  And it makes sense, it does, you can't just walk into a full restaurant with enough concussive force packed into your arms to level half of the building.  It makes  _sense_.  It just...sucks.

"…87.9%," Chuck mumbles. The bouncer raises an eyebrow and looks him over, more sharply this time, but he doesn't say anything, just turns back to Mike.

"Five percent or less."

Julie breathes out slowly—she'll just make it in, with one arm replaced. The surge of anger that well up in Chuck's gut is mostly envy, and it tastes like bile at the back of his throat. He doesn't look at her, just fixes his eyes on the middle distance and hopes this is going to be over soon.

"This is bullcrap," Mike is saying fiercely. "He's coming in with us."

"No," says the man flatly.

"Mike, you gotta make your meet-up," Chuck mutters, and grabs Mike's shoulder as he starts to step forward, jaw jutting stubbornly. "Mike! Don't start anything. I'll wait out here, it's…it's seriously okay."

"It's not okay!" Mike says. Julie's mouth is twisted, her artificial hand is shoved into the pocket of her coat. Texas is frowning intensely. Dutch's hands are clenched into fists at his sides. "It's not fair, why should-?"

"Mikey, it's _fine_." Chuck glances past the bouncer—there are people inside the restaurant watching with interest, taking in the Burners' faces, obviously waiting for them to start something. Chuck kind of wants to curl up into a ball and die, but there's no time. Not right now. "Get _in there_ already, you're gonna miss our contact. Please?"

"He can wait out here," the bouncer says. He doesn't look angry—just tense and impassive. "I got nothin' against you, kid. It's the rules. There's a couple others out in the back over there if you want somewhere to wait."

"See?" Chuck smiles weakly. "I'm fine, dude. Come find me when you're done."

—

The place out back is considerably less high-end than the restaurant Mike and the others went to. A solid, low-set building with a flickering neon sign out front—"The Socket".

Chuck really _really_ isn't a fan of bars. Even before...last time. But he's also not a fan of hanging out on the street outside high-end restaurants, looking conspicuous. He sighs, straightens his coat, and heads for the door.

There's no bouncer. A faint murmur of conversation filters out when Chuck pushes the door open, but the instant he steps inside all talking stops. Eight or ten faces turn toward him—scarred, eyes bright. Some of them have metal showing through their skin—clumsy integrations of flesh and prostheses that make Chuck's scars ache. And they're all watching him, as impassive and hostile as the man outside the restaurant had been.

Chuck chews on his lip for a second, fighting the urge to turn around and take his chances with loitering on the street looking suspicious—but no, this is where the crew's going to look for him. He can't go wandering off right now. He hesitates, then brushes his bangs back and lets his eyes flash bright blue.

A ripple of murmurs runs around the room. The atmosphere noticeably warms. People turn away again and go back to their conversations, feet up on tables or crowded on benches around the walls. Chuck lets out breath he didn't know he was holding and sidles over to a corner next to the bar, not meeting anybody's eyes.

"Welcome to the Socket," says the bartender—an impressively scarred woman with bright purple power conduits under the warped skin of her arms. "I'm not gonna tell you to put down your weapons..." a faint ripple of laughter from a couple of the people at the bar— "—But nobody else did either, so let's all play nice, okay? Got a crew next door?"

"Uh…yeah." Chuck edges forward, smiling uncertainly. "Hi."

"First drink's on me, if you're from off-planet," says the bartender, and turns back to the shelves of drinks behind her. "What are you thirsty for?"

"I'm piloting tonight," says Chuck sheepishly. He does sit down at the bar, though, but—he's not going to drink. He…he could. But he's not going to. He's not. He does stupid shit when he's drunk.

"You and I both know you've got a backup protocol to take you on your next jump," the bartender says patiently, and a couple of the men and women sitting nearby glance over, grinning or nodding in agreement. "So what do you actually drink?"

"I'm, uh…I'm kind of a…I talk too much. When I'm drunk." Chuck shrugs self-consciously. "I'm okay."

"Well, I'm not gonna force it down your throat," the bartender says, and pours a drink. "I'm gonna leave this here for no reason, just in case somebody gets the message this is a good spot to talk too much and decides they'd like a drink."

Chuck lets out a sharp, half-startled little laugh and gives in, edging forward to pick up the drink. When he sniffs it cautiously, it's exactly as fruity and sugary as every other drink he's ever wanted but not dared to order in front of Texas. When he takes a tiny sip, every tox screen pops up negative behind his eyes. Nothing actively harmful.

"We were about to play Bits And Pieces," says a man sitting down the bar from him, and a couple of the others nod or raise a drink, welcoming. Chuck grins back awkwardly and takes another cautious sip of his drink. "You in?"

"I, uh…dunno that one." Chuck drinks again, more to ease the anxious buzz of his nerves than anything. The man frowns, surprised.

"No? Never been to a wire bar that didn't play."

It's strangely startling, hearing somebody other than him say the word. It's even more strange, and even more startling, to see nobody flinch from it. Chuck sips again, clears his throat uncomfortably. "...We don't go to a lot of places with door scanners," he confesses, and rolls the glass between his palms, looking at it instead of the others. "I don't get, uh..." he waves a hand at himself awkwardly. "I don't get flagged at the door much."

A murmur. One or two of the other cyborgs roll their eyes, but most of them just look honestly envious.

"Yeah, you pass pretty good." The bartender reaches out a hand; one of the other patrons at the bar slaps her palm and their eyes both flash as credits transfer to her account. Wordlessly, she pours him another drink. "Well, sounds to me like you got a lot to learn! Show him how you do it, kids. I'm too old for drinking games."

Bits And Pieces, it turns out, is like and unlike the games of Never Have I Ever that Chuck has played. They go around the room, drinks in hand, naming body parts and procedures, throwing back drinks for every part they're missing. At first it's just four or five people near the bar—but more people join in as people hear what's going on, until almost the whole bar is in a broad circle, drinks in hand.

"I've still got…" one of the women squints down at herself. "…My right leg."

Chuck takes a drink to a chorus of good-natured boos, as do most of the others around the room. Limbs are usually the first to augment, no matter what program you're in.

"I've still got my left eye." The man opens both eyes wide, flashing his circuits in demonstration; only the right side lights up. Another sizeable chunk of the bar's patrons laugh or swear, raise a glass and drink again. Chuck blinks, data-tags flashing briefly on his vision, and finishes his drink. The bartender holds out a hand, inviting; Chuck sighs and transfers her another five credits. She slides him another drink as the man next to Chuck at the bar contemplates.

"Still got my…spine."

Chuck drinks—so do two other people. A figure in the corner, moving with the battered, silent, inhuman grace of a veteran combat unit, and a young woman near the wall. She doesn't look much older than Chuck was when he got out of the KaneCom program; her spine sticks out under her skin, pulsing gently with a soft, red glow through the thin fabric of her shirt.

Chuck is still looking over at her, feeling the hairline scar up his back burn and tingle faintly, when somebody says "Your turn."

There's a moment of silence.

"Your turn, new guy," says the guy next to him again. "What have you got?"

"Oh!" Chuck jumps, immediately pink-cheeked with startled embarrassment. "I…I've still got…" He flicks through his system, feeling his face flush red the longer he looks, looking for any part of his body that's still 100% organic. The only thing that immediately springs to mind is— _not_ something he's going to discuss with a whole room full of rough-looking strangers, no matter how weirdly comfortable the atmosphere in here is. "Uh…"

"Can't be something somebody else said," a woman by the wall prompts.

"I—I know, I know, uh…I've still got— Sorry, one sec." Now that it's sprung to mind it's horribly the only thing he can think of, and he is _not_ discussing whether or not his dick is organic with a bunch of strangers. Absolutely not.

"What percentage are you, kid?" The man next to him at the bar is swaying a little bit, but his eyes are still sharp as he looks Chuck up and down, squinting. His eyes are mismatched, one normal and one glowing faintly green. "You look like 5% if I ever saw one, but you've been drinkin' all game."

"Oh." Shoot, _shit._ Chuck shrinks in his seat. "I'm, uh…87.9."

Somebody whistles. A couple more people shake their heads, look away—the ones who haven't been playing, mostly, who are drinking as much as they can as fast as they can. Something knots unpleasantly in the pit of Chuck's stomach, and he can't tell if it's in response to the admiration or the pity.

"Can't hardly tell," says the bartender . "You gotta be KaneCom. I didn't know they still had a program."

"They don't. Officially." Chuck fidgets. "I, uh…I was the…I was the head engineer of a theory project. I was trying to make it subtle, y'know, streamlined, so it would be…easier to blend in. And then all of a sudden it wasn't theory any more. And they needed a volunteer, and I didn't want to, uh, to experiment on somebody else, so I…" he chews his lip. "But they didn't follow my plans. They—he—decided he needed…more.  More...everything."

"Tore up your contract and got out the control protocols, huh?" One of the other men hisses sympathetically. "ArashiCom was just as bad when they were still around, it's fucking amazing how fast the kid gloves come off when you tell a Combine 'no'. One second it was 'valued volunteer' and 'oh sure, whatever you want'.  And then it was all…armed guards and…" he grimaces. "…Tables with straps."

Chuck shudders. More than one other cyborg around the room winces as well.

"Doesn't surprise me Kane's that kinda asshole." One of the others frowns and raises a flask. "Rough."

"They did your spine?" It's the girl with the red lights in her back. She hasn't spoken since Chuck got there—her eyes are very big, dark red-brown that sparks brighter as she watches him. "I can't tell. But you drank."

"Yeah, it, uh. Yeah." God, he really doesn't want to talk about this again. He's brushed over it once with Mike, and the look in Mike's eyes made him feel tiny and sick and— _damaged,_ like there was something wrong with him. Chuck doesn't—feel a lot, about the surgeries, any more. Tries not to, anyway. But Mike gets so upset and angry every time. Chuck knows his best friend, can tell when he's upset, even when he pretends everything's fine and there's no problem. Chuck's trying to be okay, and move on and let it— _be okay_ , that it's not okay, and Mike is so incredibly upset still and so in denial about being upset, and it's…exhausting. Chuck clears his throat, reaches up and rubs his fingers over the faint tingle of the scar running up the back of his neck. "Yeah, I was holding off, but that's the first thing Kane had them do. When they stopped playing nice."

"Is it anything like rib coats?" somebody says, instead of grimacing or looking away. "I heard you can't move for like a day and a half afterward, like how they have to do breathing tubes after the rib surgeries."

"When I—" Chuck starts, and swallows hard as people look at him. "Sorry."

"No, what?" The guy who asked gives Chuck a look over, eyes piercing grey with unsteady flickers of white light around the iris. "You'd know, right? Guess if they were gonna wire you up that good, they gotta have done your ribs."

Chuck mentioned to Texas once that his ribs were polymer-coated, that they stress-tested high enough Texas could jump up and down on Chuck's chest and not hurt him. Texas had looked kind of...offended, almost, nervy and unsettled. Chuck had felt like an asshole for even talking about it, and Texas had waved it off but Chuck could see the weird way Texas looked at him for a day or two after that. But this time somebody asked, so it's gotta be okay, right? Somebody actually _asked_.

"Spine hurt way worse," Chuck says, and gets a couple of _well, fair enough_ nods and shrugs. "Ribs were...freakier."

"Freaky's the word," agrees the guy who asked, and blows out a breath, throwing back his drink. "All they wanted to do with me was durability, so I did a lotta bone surgeries, but they never did my back. Gottlieb was the best lab on the planet, but they didn't have the tech to do...what, the thing, with the nerves."

"Synthomyelination," says Chuck automatically, and then flushes at the range of expressions aimed his way. "—I wrote my own surgery procedures, okay, I had to learn some of the words!"

"You must have done a good job," says the girl with the glowing spine quietly. "I wish mine looked like yours."

"Oh," says Chuck, and falters, flustered. "I—thanks! I tried to—yeah."

"But it still hurt?"

The right answer—the one he'd give if he was anywhere but here—is a shrug and a joke and a change of subject. "Yeah," says Chuck instead. "It hurt like a _bitch_."

There's a faint noise from the quiet figure in the corner; scarred, with watchful red-orange eyes. Most of their skin is covered, their gender indeterminate under the layers of patched-together body armor and thick fabric. What skin Chuck can see is covered in scattered patches of pale, shiny scars. "...It doesn't hurt, right when you wake up," they say, quiet and steady. "Until you breathe, you think you finally died."

"First two awesome seconds of the day, and it all went downhill from there," Chuck says, grinning, and the combat cyborg gives him a brief, startling little smile, pulled crooked by a scar across the corner of their mouth. "First you're not _dead,_ then breakfast is throat cubes?" It feels weird, to say that out loud without being tactful, but there's something intoxicating about it, too. _It hurt, it sucked, we wanted to die, but fuck 'em, we didn't._ It burns better and sweeter than the alcohol does. "Insult to injury, right?"

"That's fucked up," says the guy with grey eyes, but he's grinning. "Hell yeah, man! Lemme get you a drink."

"Oh!" Chuck's stomach is already hot from the drink he just finished, but his face feels even hotter. People are looking at him, and they're cool with him. He just said something fucked up, and it was okay! And—somebody wants to buy him a drink for it, which is new, that's never been the reaction before. "Uh—y-yeah, okay. Can I have the same thing again?"

"Coming right up," says the bartender, and busies herself under the counter.

"How'd you get out?" somebody asks, and Chuck blinks around for a second before he sees a couple pairs of eyes on him and realizes that question was meant for him. The man who asked seems to read the startled incomprehension on Chuck's face as affront—he holds up his hands, apologetic. "Sorry."

"Wh—no! No, it's cool, I just…" Chuck hesitates, but…screw it. It's cool here. Talking is cool here. "I don't get a chance to talk about it much. My captain got me out, he—he pulled me out of surgery, he remembers way more about it than I do, but he, uh... He doesn't like talking about it."

"Well, he can start complaining after he gets his spine yanked out and augmented," one of them punches Chuck's shoulder. "You don't owe him shit. Especially not about this. Y'know there's rooms where you can talk about this stuff—with people who actually get it."

"He just…" Chuck sighs. "No, not like that. He just gets really upset. I, uh... I dunno what he saw, on the way in to get me, but he says talking about it makes him want to fly back to Kane's tower and tear the whole thing down."

Somebody goes " _Oooo"_ long and dramatic. Chuck stops, startled, and sees a lady in one of the corner tables smirking at him, eyebrows raised. "Romance isn't dead," she says, when she sees him looking, and raises a glass at him. "Was he in front of a sunset when he said that? Holding roses or something?"

"Shut up?!" says Chuck, startled and too tipsy to keep his mouth shut. The woman is tall and broad shouldered with short, choppy hair, but the way she's watching him is still way too reminiscent of the way Julie looks at him when she knows he's bluffing at cards. "I mean, no, come on, we— Look, weren't we in the middle of a game?"

"But has he ever kissed your scars?"

"Shut _up_ , ahhh—"

"Has he ever rescued you from a dragon?" One of the guys down the bar flops back across it, throwing a hand against his forehead like he's posing for a romance novel.  There are lines of parallel scars raking down the undersides of his arms, beaded with little spots of golden light. "Like a fair damsel?"

"I hate all of you," says Chuck through his fingers.

"What kind of cyporn does he watch?"

"No, okay, he doesn't watch porn," says Chuck firmly, still bright red but at least managing to pick his face up out of his hands. "He—I know about _everybody's_ porn on my ship, Mike doesn't—"

"So you're not banging yet, huh," says the grey-eyed guy, and then before Chuck can answer that, "—What, he's not into guys?"

Chuck opens his mouth and then closes it again, because god, he kind of didn't even think of that. Everybody's just—really, really hot, and sometimes he forgets that some people have whole genders they aren't into. But... "I think he—likes them okay?"

"I think he likes some of them more than 'okay'," says the girl with the glowing red spine. Chuck gives her a betrayed look, and she smirks back at him, brushing back her hair with one hand. Her right eye has some kind of nasty, warped scar under it, like somebody fucked up her implant surgery, and some part of Chuck is quietly, fiercely outraged at whoever did her operations. The rest of him is _dying._

"We're _friends,_ " he says, as firmly as he can. It comes out kind of high and squeaky, but pretty steady. "Just friends. Best friends. Just...best friends."

"Yeah, we'll see," sighs the man who was swooning, and raises a glass. "Here's to the kid and his future boyfriend, who'd wade into a KaneCom lab for him. May they eventually get around to synchronizing their physical matrices _._ "

"What?!"

"Y'know." The guy wiggles his eyebrows, eyes flashing golden-brown in the dark. "Overclocking you. Getting down and backing up your harddrive. Making an honest machine outta you."

The entire room is laughing by now. Chuck manages to keep a straight face for all of ten seconds, and then he breaks down and laughs too, covering his red face with his hands. " _You're disgusting,_ " he says, muffled. " _I hate all of you._ "

"Hey." The girl with the spinal implants smiles faintly. "He's a captain, he's...what, a 1%? Organic with a comm? You should give it a shot."

"Yeah, right," Chuck mumbles, and scrubs a hand at the back of his neck again. His headache is coming back, along with a kind of sharp, pained resentment. Some part of him is...warm, startled, amazed that there's so many people in the galaxy who would talk like this, talk and joke with a room full of strangers they've never met. Flustered and pleased, wanting to believe it, that Mike might care about him that much. The rest of him is just tired, aching. Chuck takes another drink, and he can almost feel his body soak it in, the rush of—ha—liquid courage. "...Not Mike. I could kiss him on the mouth and he'd just go _'Aw, Chuckles, you're such a good friend'_."

"Chuckles?" says somebody.

Chuck blinks, and then mentally rewinds over the past few seconds and feels a fresh flush rise in his burning face. "Yeah, it— My name's Chuck, okay, it's just a nickname."

"Your friends call you Chuckles?" the girl with the spinal implants is giggling. She's not the only one. Chuck glowers at her and takes another rebellious swig of his drink, draining the last of it.

"No," he says belligerently. "No! Okay? It's just Mike. It's just a dumb thing he came up with when we were kids, nobody else calls me that, so—so shut up."

"He has a _special nickname_ for you?" the guy who was making the awful cyporn jokes earlier throws his hands up. " _Dude._ This guy wants to test your USB functionality."

Chuck opens his mouth to be angry, but then the words register and whatever he was about to say breaks into a stupid, startled laugh. "Can— Would you _quit it_?! Come on!"

"He wants to browse your _classified_ files," suggests the girl with the spinal implants.

"Turn your software into hardware."

"Get his hands on your junk files."

"Insert your dongle."

"Every single one of you owes me a drink," says Chuck, half-horrified, half-laughing. "I'm going back in my memory and deleting this whole—"

The door opens. The room goes abruptly silent, every face turning toward the ray of sudden, brightly-colored light coming in from the street outside.

And then the figure in the doorway steps through into the soft lights, and Chuck slumps all over with relief.

"Uh…" Mike smiles around at everybody, looking slightly unnerved by the force of the hostile looks being aimed his way. "Hey. I'm just looking for my friend, is— Oh hey! There you are, man."

"Oh," says the scarred woman at the bar, and all eyes turn to Chuck. Chuck feels every inch of his face that wasn't already red go burning hot.  " _Oh._ Well, will you look at that."

"Hi, Mikey," says Chuck faintly. "…Deal go well?"

"Mikey?" somebody repeats from a corner. Chuck closes his mouth abruptly, and resists the urge to curl up in a ball and bury his burning face in his knees.

"It went…fine?" Mike glances at the corner and then back at Chuck. "We've got a job. Is, uh…is everything okay in here?"

"Yeah!" Chuck glares around the room, daring anybody to say a word. "We're all good. We're fine."

Mike squints at Chuck's flushed face for another minute, then around the room at the looks everybody is giving both of them. "…O…kay…" he says finally. "You ready to go?"

"In a second," says Chuck, and makes direct eye-contact with the golden-eyed bad-joke guy as he reaches over, picks the man's drink up and drains it.  The man snorts and rolls his eyes, then winks; an unknown contact transfers Chuck an animated file of an old woman wiggling her eyebrows and making a gesture that Chuck's remaining Deluxe programming immediately catalogues as "inappropriate" and "obscene".  Chuck glares at him, and then turns to the room at large.  "Somebody shoot me the address for that room?"

The girl with the spinal implants blinks—her eyes flare red. Chuck feels the contact request tap at the back of his skull and gives her a grateful grin. 

"Make sure you take care of that hardware compatibility problem," says somebody, shaky with stifled laughter.

"You all suck."

"Take care, new kid," says the bartender, and pours another drink, sliding it down the bar to the man with the awful jokes. "Make sure you check those ports _thoroughly_ , and don't forget to set up a good firewall!"

Chuck flips the entire room off elaborately, and the sound of people laughing follows them out onto the street. Mike glances back, half-smiling, then quirks his eyebrows at Chuck through his bangs. "...They seemed cool."

"They were all assholes," says Chuck, still hot-cheeked with embarrassment, and scrubs at his face with both hands as the cold air of the city flutters his bangs. "Jeez."

"Oh." Mike sounds genuinely saddened, and Chuck blinks and then realizes that Mike took him seriously. "That stinks, man, I thought—"

"No—they were okay, seriously, they were fine." Chuck waves a hand abstractedly in the air, not looking at Mike as they wind through the crowd. _This guy is so into you…_ "They were just…messing with me, they were pretty cool. They were…yeah."

—

The job is pretty straightforward, for all the trouble they went through to get it; protecting a shuttle full of goods as it flies through pirate territory. Mike spends the whole time so on edge it's almost painful to watch, staring at the crags and spikes of wind-blown rock as they blur past outside the shuttle windows. He has a hand on his staff the whole time, like he'd like nothing better than to take on some pirates.

But nobody attacks them. The pilot of the cargo-hauler takes a cautious, scenic route, riding out gusts of wind like a professional, and once a huge, dinosaur-looking animal starts swooping a little too close to them, but the winds are fair and a single warning shot scares the dinosaur thing away, and after that it's smooth sailing. 

The pilot and crew thank them profusely at the end of the trip, and Mike smiles and nods and then loads back up onto the Burner's shuttle and immediately starts pacing, practically bouncing off the walls with frustrated energy.  Chuck pats him on the shoulder a couple times, then swings into the pilot's seat and settles in.  ROTH is back on the ship, so for the first time in a couple of weeks, Chuck gets to stretch his flying skills again. 

He's been weaving through sparse, strange rock formations for a silent ten or fifteen minutes when a comm screen pops up in front of him.

_?: we should meet up_

Chuck glances back at the crew—most of them also have screens open, working on some project or other. Nobody is paying him any attention. He kicks out a foot, hits pilot-assist and lets himself zone out enough to type with his implants, keeping his hands on the steering column.

_C: I'm pretty far from the closest port right now._

_?: me too but I gotta do something be4 i jump out f my skin_

There's a long silence, full of the sound of rushing air outside the cockpit. Texas, who's watching some kind of movie, whoops once or twice. Chuck stares at the words, chewing on his lip.

_C: well if neither of us can get to a raza what are you suggesting?_

_?: i dont know_

_?: i lookd up cybering we could do that_

_?: what ru wearing?? ;D_

_?: im in my underwear + a cape_

Chuck lets out a tiny, undignified snort of laughter before he can stop himself.

_C: I'm not SEXTING you genius i'm literally six feet from my whole crew!_

_?: wait is sexting like cybering_

_?: u keep throwing ne wwords at me buddy_

God, this dumbass.

_C: Yes they're the same thing, and NO we're not doing either of them right now._

_C: Dork._

_?: ouch_

_?: come on!!_

_?: what about if i type alot more winks @ you??? ;D ;D ;D ;D_

_C: you're such an ass_

_?: y but i bet ur smiling so_

_?: worth it_

_?: that was a joke btw im wearing normal ppl clothes, no cape._

_?: or underwear_

Chuck's laugh chokes in his throat.

"What's up?" Julie's voice says behind him. "Chuck, you okay up there?"

"Yeah, just—" his voice comes out high and squeaky. "Just thought I saw something. Nothing there though."

"Okay." He can hear her settle back in her seat. They're _right there,_ they're so close and they can hear every sound he makes and he _can't_ but…

_C: how did you just make that hot_

He wants to keep typing, it's scary how bad he wants to try this right now, but he can hear Mike laugh quietly at something on his screen, hear Texas humming along with the theme music of his movie, hear Dutch grumbling to himself as he paints and they're too close for this right now, jeez.

_?: I was joking but I can get away if u can_

_C: get away? Where are you?_

_?: dnt matter_

_C: Are there people there?!_

_?: maybe_

Jeez, this guy is nuts. But...there's something whispering at the back of his mind, some reckless impulse. Chuck takes a couple of deep breaths and wills himself to stop thinking this is hot instead of catastrophically dumb.

_C: I'm piloting_

_?: wat like shuttle piloting_

_C: Yeah._

_C: ...But i can do that one handed_

He yanks his eyes away from the screen, back to the forest in front of him. His heart is pounding, and—it's a dumb idea, it's stupid and _dangerous,_ and he shouldn't, but—

_?: i dont want u to crash, dude :( :(_

_?: death isnt sexy_

_?: later sounds good_

_?: just rly miss you_

Right. Right, okay. Chuck sits back, not sure whether he's relieved or disappointed. Shakes his head, closes his eyes for just a second and then types back.

_C: you can't miss me, you don't know anything about me_

_?: mkes me miss you more_

_?: ill let u fly_

_?: chat u later, k?_

"Hey," says Dutch tensely. "There's somebody on our six."

Chuck blinks, detaches from the comm system so abruptly his screen glitches out. It takes a second for the words to register, but when they do a hot jolt of acid panic shoots up his spine. He pulls up the feed from the rear cameras, and his gut twists even tighter. A bigger, heavier shuttle is following them, matching pace. He wasn't paying attention, he wasn't fucking _watching_ , shit shit _shit—_

"Mike, fly," Chuck says tensely. Mike starts moving immediately, switching him out places in the cockpit even as he glances back at the rear door, shoulders tense. Chuck slides past him, rolling up his sleeves. His combat protocols are spinning up in his head, heating his eyes and burning at the seams in his skin.

"Pirates?" Julie says. "Dutch can you see—?"

"Mike, open the bay doors." Some part of Chuck is distantly aware that he's panicking, that his body is breathing too fast and too hard and this is a really bad plan—that part of him is watching from somewhere outside his body, watching his weapons systems unfold out of his skin. "I can get in a shot, if I total their engines—"

"What?!" Julie grabs his arm. Chuck doesn't shake her off, because he doesn't have to—just keeps moving, dragging her weight like she's not even there. "Chuck, what are you doing?!"

"You don't have to start a fight!" Mike says, half-turned in his seat. "Dude! You don't know those are pirates!"

"We're in pirate territory, and they're in our airspace!" Chuck snaps. The back of his throat feels full of acid, his thoughts keep skipping and focusing, skipping and refocusing. Like an anxiety attack but different, aimed outwards. "What, are we waiting for them to try and shoot us down?"

"Yeah!" Texas is unbuckling too, teeth bared, an unfriendly smile. "They dunno who they're messing with! Let's take 'em down!"

"Chuck," says Dutch sharply, and steps between him and the rear doors, arms spread. " _Listen_! It's not pirates!"

"You don't know—!"

"I do know!" Dutch says, raising his voice, and Chuck's hands clench, anger stabbing through him like a sudden headache. "I know, 'cause they're settlement police!"

Chuck opens his mouth to yell, and then blinks. "What?"

"They're law enforcement," Dutch says, and cranes his neck, squinting at the rear viewing screens. "See, they got the logo on the side."

Embarrassment abruptly swamps the anger. Chuck lets his weapons system disassemble back under his skin, feels the heat die back into his core as his combat protocols deactivate. In the wake of the desperate fear and anger, the urge to lash out, his head is _throbbing._ "...Oh," he says, and can't find anything else to say. "I. Oh."

"Yeah, 'oh'," says Dutch. "What's up with you, dude?"

"Nothing's _up_ with me!" Chuck says, shrill and harsh with anger, and then sways and presses a hand to his head, anger draining away as quickly as it came. "—Sorry. Agh, sorry. I just—I freaked out, I...don't feel good."

"Okay, Texas don't feel good sometimes," Texas says, like he wasn't just as gung-ho about shooting down the ship as Chuck was. "Doesn't make Texas wanna blow up cops, is all—"

"I said I was _sorry!_ "

"Hey!" Mike half-turns in the cockpit, glancing back over his shoulder. "Easy, guys. Their paint is hard to see through the back window, they don't have their sirens on, we're all fired up— It's cool, okay? Stuff happens."

"Yeah, but—"

"It's _cool_ ," Mike says, and makes sharp eye-contact with Texas. Texas holds his gaze for a second, then huffs and looks away. Chuck glances over at Mike, and catches a brief flash of a look in return. Mike looks tired, wired, worried. There's a furrow between his brows, a tight line at the corner of his mouth. He smiles at Chuck when he sees him looking, and then looks away quickly to get his hands back on the steering column.

Nobody talks much the rest of the way back to the ship. The settlement police stop tailing them after only a couple of minutes, and nobody else bothers them, but the silence inside the shuttle is oppressive. Chuck sidles up to the cockpit, just once, and mumbles something about _hey I can..._ and Mike goes "Oh, nah, I'll fly us back. I was going nuts back there!" and smiles so brightly Chuck has no choice but to slink back into the back of the shuttle again and slump down in the corner, rubbing his temples. Halos of white light are already starting to blur the edges of his vision. He can feel the pain coming, sickening in its inevitability as much as its intensity, and he _hates_ it. He feels all wrong in his own body, like it's a set of ill-fitting clothes; everything grates on his senses, still overclocked by the leftover adrenaline.

Migraines were bad enough when he was a kid, when the only thing in his head was his brain. But now there's an unprecedented amount of one-of-a-kind enhancement technology crammed in there too, and every wave of pain comes with a corresponding wave of errors, alerts, data chains that go nowhere. It takes him a while after every headache to get his brain back in order, and they've been coming more and more often and he has less and less time to clean up in between. Everything is spinning out of control and he doesn't know how to stop and it _hurts_ and half of them come with panic attacks now, and—

Chuck heads straight to his bunk as soon as they get back to the ship. He spends most of that night lying in a sort of limp, pathetic fetal position, shutting down every possible program until his brain is barely ticking over. Once, he feels somebody come and settle down on the bed next to him; for a second he thinks it's Mike, but the hand that settles on his head is amorphous and strangely soft. ROTH stays for a long time, petting his hair, not making a sound or messaging him. The pain doesn't get better, but at some point, _finally_ , his brain shuts down around it.

—

Chuck wakes up feeling like his mouth has been scrubbed out with a wad of lint and his eyes have been glued shut. The lingering tightness in his temples and across his forehead slowly fade as he gets cleaned up, washes his face, gets a clean shirt on. By the time he steps out into the light of the corridor, he feels almost human. A quick check tells him it's six AM, which is a terrible time to be awake, but by his best estimate he passed out some time around four PM the previous afternoon so it's actually almost a normal person's sleep schedule.

Mike and Dutch are playing cards out in the common area when he comes in, and they both look up and then do a double-take.

"You okay, man?" Dutch says, and "—Hey!" Mike says at the same time, eyes wide and smile big and hopeful.

The memory of yesterday—of the weird frenzy that hit him on the shuttle, the way he freaked out the other Burners—comes flooding back. Chuck kind of…crumples in on himself, offers a miserable little wave and then makes a concerted effort to vanish into the kitchen as quickly as possible.

"Hey!" Mike pushes himself up, hurrying after him—catches his arm and pulls him back. "Chuckles, hey. You don't have to go, dude. You okay?"

He's so earnestly worried, even after the bullshit Chuck pulled yesterday. It feels so good to be worried about, but it's so stupid and embarrassing and pathetic, and the shame _burns._ But Mike is giving him another chance to explain what's going on with him, even after yesterday. Mike hates talking about emotional stuff, but he's willing to make the attempt and…he deserves an answer, probably. Chuck swallows, scrubs at his face with both hands. Forces himself to meet Mike's eyes.

"I've been…feeling. Really bad," he manages, halting. "A lot of…migraines, and, and stupid…brain stuff. I'm trying to get it under control but I don't feel like I can. Uh. It's just a lot."

He chances a glance up at Mike's face, and feels a stupid, hot flush rush over his face. Mike is watching him, eyes wide and warm and worried. Dutch is on his feet in the background, edging closer, concerned but holding back like he's not sure he's allowed to hear this.

"I'm spiraling," Chuck admits, and he knows Mike doesn't really get what he means but he _wants_ to. He wants to help. "It'll be over eventually, I just gotta…ride it out."

"…Okay," says Mike, and chews on his lip for a second, uncertain. "Is there anything we can, y'know…?"

"I don't think so, Mikey," says Chuck, and manages a tiny, faint smile. "Thanks anyway."

"We can distract you, though," Dutch suggests, and jerks a thumb back at the table. "You wanna watch me kick Mike's butt at cards? And then we were gonna go out for a movie before lunch."

That sounds like a lot of effort and time and being around people. But it also sounds distracting, and god knows Chuck could use the distraction right now. "I…" he starts, conflicted, and then catches the hopeful look on Mike's face again and crumples for it like he always freakin' does. "…Yeah, okay. Sounds good. Uh…what time is the movie?"

"Like ten," says Dutch. "Why?"

Shoot. Well, okay. Mike was gonna figure it out anyway. Chuck shrugs as casually as he can. "I was gonna go out before lunch too. Alone, y'know. Get my head straight.  I'll totally go to the next one, though."

He sees the way Mike glances at him. Mike knows, Chuck knows he knows, Mike knows Chuck knows he knows. That's okay. It's fine. And Mike doesn't bring it up.

He keeps on not bringing it up as Chuck watches the card game. He doesn't bring it up as the other Burners start to filter into the common area, as everybody starts getting their stuff together to head out.

It's honestly more nerve-wracking than another argument, and by the time Mike sidles over to him at the bay doors, right before they head out, Chuck is just about vibrating with pent-up anxiety.

"I can go out by myself," he says sharply before Mike can even start talking. He's braced for another argument but Mike just thins his lips for a second and then breathes out and nods. He even manages a smile this time, and this time his unhappiness looks less like judgmental annoyance and more like worry. Jeez, he's such a mother hen it's not even funny.

"I know," says Mike, and the obvious effort it takes him to say the words is grating, but he's trying so freakin' hard. He's really trying to be cool about this. "I know. Uh…have fun. Be safe, okay? Just…be safe."

The anxiety and annoyance melt in front of that look, like they always seem to. Chuck slumps, returning his smile. "Seriously," he says. "I'll be fine, Mike. Enjoy your movie, okay?"

"Hey," says Mike, and throws an arm around his shoulders. "It's cool, y'know? Just—ha! Don't do anything I wouldn't do!"

"Oh, shut up," says Chuck without much force, and waves Mike off.

"Make good choices!" Mike calls after him.

"Bite me!"

—

.

**Session 7**

.

—

Mike comes back to the ship with a vivid bite-mark bruised into his neck, and Chuck just about has a heart attack.

"Where did _that_ come from?!" is the first question out of his mouth—and then, side-stepping as Mike tries to get around him, "Mike! I thought you went to a _movie_! What happened to your neck?!"

"Uh…" Mike makes an attempt to look at his own neck guiltily, then hazards, "…Stuff…?"

"Were you in a fight?!" Chuck immediately regrets the question, because it's impossibly dumb—rushes on, "What happened?!"

"Uh…" says Mike, but he is the world's _worst_ liar and an inkling is already sinking in, heavy as a rock in the pit of Chuck's stomach. "Yeah, uh…yeah I mean, a…fight—"

Dammit. Every time Chuck leaves a terminal thinking  _maybe this time should be the last one_ or _maybe I can try to say something to him this time—_ every time, he comes back and he sees that Mike has been busy elsewhere. Mike's been doing _fine_ without him, obviously, no wonder he's cutting Chuck loose to go sleep with whoever he wants.  God, at least Chuck was honest about what he was going to go do, at least he didn't try to  _pretend_ when both of them know _—_

"Never mind," says Chuck, abrupt and sharp.  The anger heats the back of his neck and itches in the palms of his hands, makes him curl them into fists.  Mike looks startled by his expression, like he's not being an infuriating _asshole_ right now.  Chuck looks away from his stupid, startled face and pushes past him, heading towards his room.  "Y'know what?  Forget it."

Mike comes after him, hurrying to keep up with Chuck's longer stride. "Hey!" he says, and one of his hands tries to grab for Chuck's shoulder.  Chuck pulls away and keeps walking.  "No, dude, come on!  Where are you—"

"If you don't wanna talk about it, just say so," says Chuck, and types in his code without looking. "Don't lie to my face." And before Mike can answer, the door slides shut behind him.

—

Chuck paces the length of his room thirty-two angry times and then takes a very angry shower. Some part of him is fully aware he shouldn't be so angry about this, that it's stupid to get this upset, but—they don't _lie_ to each other, that's not what best friends _do._ Mike's all gung-ho about how dangerous and stupid Chuck's being and then he can't handle it when Chuck pries, well, fuck him.  Chuck glowers at himself in the mirror and towels his hair so aggressively it hurts.

He's just finished pulling a shirt on, studiously ignoring the sharp strains of guilt that are starting to creep in past the frustrated fury, when his comm beeps in his ear. For just a second he thinks it's Mike, and anger and remorse fight with each other in his chest, but then he feels the sudden swell of the data-sink around him and realizes it's his untraceable line. His mystery fling is messaging him.

_?: sucks were flying rn_

_?: gotta be captain but all i want to do is go find u again :(_

Of course he's a captain. The memories are still locked away, but the gentlest hazy echoes of thoughts whisper something about _handsome_ and _strong_ and a sense of security and awe. He must really be something _(Is he anything like Mike he must be you know who you think about every time you lie down in that terminal_ shut up SHUT UP)

_C: yeah I wish I could get off my ship right now_

_?: something up?_

_C: I don't like feeling like somebody's lying to me, that's all._

_?: ur not talking about me right??_

_C: NO_

_C: *no_

_C: Just somebody on my crew is lying to me about something and I can tell and I know they know I know._

_C: I don't care what they do, but I don't wanna feel like I can't trust them._

_?: y i know what u mean_

_?: trust makes a ship a home + all that jazz_

_C: "all that jazz"?_

_?: ???_

_C: nothing._

_C: lmao_

_?: shut up :)_

_?: srsly though_

_?: w/evers going on there probably just scared_

_C: I know, I know._

_C: That just makes me feel worse for being a heel._

_?: :(_

_C: don't worry about it, it's not your fault._

_C: but I'm scared too, y'know?_

_C: I want to trust my crew, they're the only family I've got._

_?: shoot, rly??_

_C: Mom and dad died when I was three and four, so_

_?: wow_

_?: sorry._

_C: nah, it's cool. Long time ago._

_?: its not cool_

_?: no kid should grow up alone_

Chuck stares at those words for a long second, trying to remember why they ring something old and bright and painful in his chest. Then the guy is typing again, and the moment passes.

_?: my mom whn i was 6_

_?: kinda had a dad fr a while but_

There's a long second, a pause in the quiet darkness.

_?: he sucked so w/ever_

_?: just me now_

_?: so i get u dude_

A runaway. Not rare, in the black—Chuck doesn't know everybody's stories, but he's pieced together that at least 3/5 of their crew is on the run from _something_. Some kids run away down the street and then run back home when it gets cold and lonely—some kids jump a star-freighter and never look back. It's a bleak way to start a life, but if what you've got at home is no better…well.

_C: Sorry, dude._

_?: its fine_

_?: at least I figured out how bad he was and got out_

_?: anyway_

_?: I know what u mean about ur crew being family_

A long pause, silent and slow, and then finally

_?: never told anybody this_

Chuck licks his lips, swallows hard. There's something heavy and warm weighing on his chest. Flirting, sure, but this is…something else.

_C: you can trust me._

_?: I know_

Another long second, and then another message pops up

_?: okay well_

_?: my crews my family but i_

_?: i mean u cant get tgeter w/ people on ur crew right???_

_?: not if ur the captain_

_?: its not right its not how it works_

…Oof, geez. Yeah, that's…rough. Not quite as much on a little ship like the Burner, but if this guy is running any kind of actual full-sized crew, if he's got authority there, no wonder he's torn up about this.

_C: It's not like you would abuse your power or play favorites or anything, though. The fact you're worrying about it shows that, I think??_

_C: You're a good dude._

It takes a second for his mystery man to answer that one. Hopefully because…it helped, and he's overcome with emotion, or something. Not because he's pissed off. Chuck swallows, staring at the screen, waiting.

_?: thx dude_

_?: that's cool of u t say_

_C: I'm guessing you're not talking about a one-night-stand or anything, either._

_?: …no_

Chuck sits back on the bed, closes his eyes and drags his hands down his face. There's a miserable, aimless buzz in his skull, a hot flush of unhappy anxiety rising under his skin. Of course. Of _course._ This was always something temporary, how could it not be? This guy doesn't even know Chuck's _name—_

_?: but its not gonna happen right???_

_?: thats not how it works_

_?: so what the heck time to move on_

_?: guess nobody goes to raza unless they got s/thing they wantto hide from_

Chuck thinks of Mike in the next room, probably laid out sleeping after getting worn out by some beautiful hook-up. His stomach clenches into a sick knot.

_C: yeah._

_C: I guess they don't._

_?: anyway i got o sign off rly quick and message s/body_

_C: ??_

_?: i was kinda jerk to one of my friends_

_?: need t say sorry_

_?: signing off befr i lose my nerve :)_

Oh look, he's actually brave enough to do the right thing when he fucks up. Chuck sighs and settles back in his chair, already trying to put together his first message to Mike. _He's probably just scared,_ huh? Huh.

_C: If it makes you feel better, I'm gonna message my friend too._

_C: So we can both go apologize together._

_?: it ttlly does :)_

_C: good luck._

_?: u too_

The network of the ship sparkles in Chuck's mind as he leans back and closes his eyes—around his computer, a patch of pure darkness like a black hole in a starfield, the remnants of his untraceable line as it starts to shut down. Everywhere else, the glittering shimmer of connections and nodes, points and signals and—

Another dead patch.

There's _another_ dead patch. Two untraceable signals, and as Chuck closes his he sees the other one flicker out at the exact same second.

The signal is coming from onboard the ship.

Chuck opens his eyes and stares at his screen, suddenly breathless, but before he even has time to really process, his screen beeps and a new chat client pops up. In the network, where the black patch used to be, a new star-point of light shimmers online, a spiderweb-thin line reaches out and connects to Chuck's terminal.

_-blip-_

_Mike: hey buddy_

No.

No _fucking_ way.

_Mike: i get it if u dont want t answer me_

_Mike: sorry i lied to u_

_Mike: just figured you wouldnt want too talk about it._

_Mike: so_

_Mike: yeah sorry_

_Mike: youre prbly asleep anyway_

_Mike: thats what I get for sending this in the middle of the night_

_Mike: night chuckles._

_TheVanquisher: Wait._

Mike doesn't answer, but he doesn't sign off either. Which is good, because he's still here, and bad because Chuck doesn't actually know what he's going to say. _Hey is it possible the people we've been sneaking off to have sex with for the past four or five stops…_ no. _Hey, do you remember anything about…_ no. Shit.

 _Fuck._ Okay. Okay, well, right now just…play it safe. Just have this conversation, have the other one later.

_TheVanquisher: listen_

_TheVanquisher: I don't care what you're doing and it's cool if you don't want to tell me about it._

_TheVanquisher: it was dumb to snap at you like that_

_TheVanquisher: I trust you more than literally anybody else in the entire universe, okay?_

_TheVanquisher: I just don't want to mess that up._

_Mike: i dont ether!!!!_

_TheVanquisher: we both know what we're doing, we don't have to talk about it but there's no point lying about it_

_TheVanquisher: please just_

_TheVanquisher: I need to trust you dude, please don't lie right to my face_

_Mike: i kno_

_Mike: i dnt n what t say i just freaked out_

_TheVanquisher: next time just say you don't really want to talk about it, i swear I'll back off_

_TheVanquisher: I shouldn't have put you on the spot_

_Mike: m still sorry_

_TheVanquisher: I know you are, Mikey._

_TheVanquisher: I shouldn't have gotten mad like that, it's not like it was my business._

_TheVanquisher: I'm sorry too._

_TheVanquisher: get some sleep, okay?_

_Mike: ok_

And then, a second before Chuck can terminate the chat,

_Mike: love u dude_

_Mike: u know that rite??_

Shit. Shit, shit shit fuck goddammit. Chuck sits back for a second and presses his hands over his suddenly burning eyes before he can manage to answer.

_TheVanquisher: Yeah_

_TheVanquisher: I love you too, bro. :)_

He has to sit for a minute or two after the call closes, staring straight ahead and just breathing.  Mike has said those words before, and Chuck always knew what they meant.  _As a friend,_ even  _as a brother._ But... _you can't get together with somebody on your crew—_   But  _Mike_ has been meeting Chuck in the terminal, Mike has been thinking about him as he lies down in the transfer pod, Mike has been flirting with him and, and,  _god,_ Mike has been having  _sex_ with him.  Chuck has been— They've been—  

Time to check. Check the hypothesis, test your conclusions, give the universe the chance to prove you wrong. Chuck breathes in and out, slow and deep, counting ten breaths. Then he opens up his UT line again.

_C: Did you figure things out with your friend?_

For a second, there's no answer. Chuck stares at his screen, tapping his fingers slowly on his desk, trying to keep the beat even, focusing on the rhythm. Eight seconds. Ten. Twenty.

And then, sudden and damningly clear, he feels the blank spot bloom in the ship network as Mike's UT line comes online.

_?: ye :)_

_?: dont deserve that guy i swear_

The knowledge is so monumental it's almost anticlimactic. It doesn't register. Chuck blinks and stares blankly at his screen and tries to remember Mike's face, tries to remember _anything_ about the person he's been seeing every week or two for the past few months. He can't reconcile the two. How can he possibly not remember what he did, what the guy looked like, if it was _Mike?_ It has to be a coincidence, right? He would know. He's known Mike for years, for  _decades_ now—he would have known! He would have remembered.

_?: anyway when are you landing???_

Simple questions have always been the best way to make it through panic. Chuck stares blankly as his hands type out—

_C: 20 hours._

_?: hey me to!!_

Of course.  Of  _course,_ every time matching up, every meeting timing perfectly, god, Chuck is so stupid.  How can he not have known, how can he not have...  What, felt it, remembered, recognized Mike's hickies and bruises?  Something, anything, how could he not  _know?_

_?: u hanging around fr a while???_

…Yeah. Okay. Okay, no big deal, this is fine. If it's really Mike (and it can't be, it isn't, it can't be—) then there's no way Chuck is going to rush into this half-assed. He makes dumb choices when he's anxious, and _god_ he's anxious right now, he feels like he's going to throw up and his skin feels too tight and hot.

_C: I should still be grounded when you land_

_?: yeah??_

He can prove or disprove it. He can find evidence, he can _know_ before he drags this out into the open. If it is Mike—hell, he wouldn't remember either, would he? He would probably find it just as hard to believe as Chuck is, if not moreso because he can't feel networks or comm lines. Chuck needs evidence, and he needs to be sure. He's got to be _sure_.

_C: …and for a while afterward_

_?: :)_

_C: :)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you would think this would herald the oncoming denouement, wouldn't you.


	7. 6 - Delayed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's easy to delay "great" for "perfect", especially when it comes to things that are incredibly important--and Mike is definitely that, so. This has to be perfect. That's okay, Chuck's a certified genius; with a little bit of time, he can swing "perfect".  
> As usual, though, trust Abraham Kane to ruin everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know this fic is rated for it, so y'all know kind of what you're getting into, but if the sexy parts aren't your speed you might want to skip from about "C: pretty sure he's never been into me like that" to "Light falls over the bed" because yup you guessed it something SEXY is going to happen.
> 
> On a less-fun note there's also some hate-thread bullshit, so obvs feel free to skip this first section if that bothers you. ~~I've hate-read some MRA forums in my day and BOY. WOW.~~

The best thing about space is how incredibly, impossibly fast you can go up there. The worst thing about space is that it doesn’t seem to really make a difference.

Mike grew up sneaking his pod away from the city center to fly over Deluxe’s oceans, barely skimming over the waves so the sensors wouldn’t pick him up. Pushing as fast and as far as he could before he had to come back to recharge. It was the biggest thrill in his life, he loved every second of it even when he was still loyal to Kane and the guilt was pretty killer sometimes.

Up in space he can go so fast they’re…bending time, or something, and it just feels like a blur. There’s no reference for how fast they’re going. Every so often he gets to fly a shuttle down on a planet, and those times are great, but up here in space it’s just…boring.

He even misses Deluxe, sometimes. That’s how boring it is. There was a stretch of about six days there where he was on the run from every security officer on the planet, trying to find a shuttle—two days on the end where he was dragging Chuck’s semi-conscious body along with him, doggedly keeping them alive while some asshole in KaneCom Tower 0 tried to activate a tracker in Chuck’s brain or make him kill Mike remotely or something.

He—okay, he doesn’t miss _that,_ that was just about the most stressed he’s ever been in his _life._ But Chuck figured it out and in retrospect it was only a week or so, and—he might do something like that again if he got the chance, is all. Something to get his blood going. Only this time without being terrified his best friend was going to get his head remotely blown up the whole time and not knowing what he could do about it.

Maybe there’s a city somewhere on this planet with a vintage laser tag club. Laser tag is great.

His comm beeps. Mike blinks, pulls up the message—it's from Chuck. A link, and a single sentence.

_TheVanquisher: hey @ I’m pulling these g!s down 00 but e/o all this scrap_

It’s a group message, and all the other people are usernames Mike doesn’t know; strings of numbers and random letters that look a lot like—oh. He must have sent this back to Deluxe for some of his tech friends. Well—Mike’s his friend! Maybe he wanted Mike to see it too. Even if the message is totally incomprehensible, in that familiar way Chuck's messages to other techs have always been. Mike at least knows “g!” is shorthand for some kind of insult, and he’s heard Chuck call stuff he doesn’t like “scrap” before. Whatever this link is, Chuck's not happy about it.

The link, it turns out, leads to a forum. It's just about like every forum Mike's ever somehow ended up in, which is to say it's full of tiny font that blends in badly with the background and makes the letters jump and move as Mike tries to read them. He's about to close the window and give up on whatever Chuck is messaging people about, when a post catches his eye.

_$0149: No offense but I mean why would you do something like that? I mean, get yourself cut up, that’s fu/cked up, right?_

_..._ Oh. It’s that kind of forum.

Mike hesitates, one hand raised to dismiss the window, and then scrolls down further, stomach churning.

_**2249: Some people are just sick that way. They’d rather be walking deathtraps than human beings._

_**2249: People act like they don’t know why there are so many planetary conflicts, it’s s_hit like this, this culture that acts like it’s okay to get w1red up as long as it’s only FIVE percent or only TEN percent, it’s idiotic. Why would you let people turn themselves into weapons and then be surprised when people turn around and go to war?_

_$1103: I wrote a paper abot this for my ethics class if the ywant to be not humans we shouldn’t treat them like humans isn’t that the _______ golden rule or whatever? ____ _____!_

_$1103: why can’t I type _____

_**2249: Some stupid byte added “w(i) re” to the profanity list, if that’s what you’re trying to type. You have to stagger it or it’ll get censored._

_**2249: Anyway, I have to disagree with you, @1103. If they didn’t want to be treated like humans that would be one thing, but they fundamentally change themselves and then they *do* want to be treated like humans. That's not the real problem, that's just a *symptom* of the real problem._

It goes on and on. Mike keeps scrolling, feeling a headache start in one temple as he grits his teeth. It just—he used to hear the guys in the security barracks throw stuff around like this. Jabs about _wires_ and _bots_ and Mike used to roll his eyes and ignore it, and he hates to think about that, now. He'd make an account and argue with these guys all day if he knew how to make a stupid account, and if the thought of trying to read any more of these messages didn't make his head preemptively ache. Chuck's done something to his messaging system, some weird tweak to the shape of the letters that makes it _way_ easier to read, and Mike got spoiled—he forgot how stupidly freakin' hard it was to read stuff like this.

He scrolls down some more, knowing he should stop. Not stopping. It's so infuriating, it's almost fascinating. So stupid and awful, he can't bring himself to look away.

_#8827: Some o/ them it just seems like this weird masochist thing_

_#8827: is that weird, do you get w I mean?_

_$0149: No, totally! One of my friend’s friend’s is like ‘oh I made it out it was soooo bad in there’ or whatever but then she just keeps on talking about it like god if it was so bad why are you still thinking about it? Why do you keep trying to talk about it??_

_#8827: sucks for you you didt want to go full w(re but can you stop making us all think about all your creepy surgery sh(t? the stuff you VOLUNTEERED for…….DMM……_

Mike stares at those words for a long, long second, frozen where he’s sitting. There’s a tiny voice in the back of his mind, creeping like poison, cold and sick and too familiar, that…agrees. Some piece of him knows what these jerks are talking about, and he hates it. It’s just—

It’s just that…

It’s just that every time Chuck brings it up, Mike gets hit with the guilt and the anger all over again. Fury at Kane, at himself for being so _stupid_ , so absolutely gullible. He should have known about Kane, and he should have known about Chuck, and he should have left sooner and he should have stopped Chuck from taking the surgeries, and some part of him _knows—_ some part of him is absolutely certain that Chuck blames him for all the messed up stuff they did to him before Mike came and broke him out.

Mike doesn’t even know most of the details. He only knows the tiny fraction that he saw, but that’s burned into his mind’s eye; the awful shock and horror when he slammed through the last door and found his friend strapped down on a table, cold and still, eyes open but totally blank. He'd looked like a corpse, and his chest and stomach had been flayed open, slick and awful and almost bloodless. Mike had threatened the surgeon into closing him back up; they'd done something that pulled the seams in Chuck's skin neatly closed, fixed him as fast and neat as zipping up a jacket, and he’d blinked and gasped in a breath and the light had come back on in his eyes and he’d _screamed._

The rest of Mike’s memory is running, a cool, surprisingly heavy body slung over his shoulder. Hiding and running and hiding and stealing a shuttle, slamming it through the atmosphere and racing out into the black as fast as the engines could take them.

...And it's _frustrating,_ because Chuck is the one who went through that whole mess, who still has nightmares about it, and he still acts like it’s no big deal! It's not even really Mike's problem, he's not the one getting stared at and denied access to places. People don't look at him and assume he's gonna murder them for no reason. And he knows Chuck hates it but if he hates it then it doesn't make any _sense,_ the way he keeps talking about it, telling jokes about it that make Mike's stomach turn.

It's a mess, and it’s stupid, and it’s hard to shove down and not think about because Chuck treats it like it’s just a couple of weird bad days he likes to joke about sometimes.

A small, fast beeping interrupts his thoughts. Mike blinks, startled, looks down and sees a calendar alarm blinking softly at the corner of his screen. It's fifteen minutes until the time he set up to meet his mystery guy at the terminal. If he wants to make it there anywhere near on time, he needs to go.

Mike stares at the clock's numbers, bright in the dimness of the unlit bridge, and agonizes.

The thing is, he's not really big on thinking about stuff. But even to his own eyes, it's starting to be pretty clear what the pattern is here. He thinks about Chuck, he spins his wheels until he's twitchy and frustrated, he calls up his mystery guy, they...get together. Mike gets home in a great mood, and then remembers he's not the only one on the ship who's got places to go and people to see. He starts thinking about Chuck, and the whole thing starts all over again.

It's a stupid, painful cycle, and there doesn't seem to be a good way to fix it, especially with Chuck so prickly and aggressive whenever Mike tries to talk to him about it. Mike's not exactly comfortable talking about this stuff anyway, but it's especially hard with Chuck all...the way he is.

Mike sits there for another long minute, agonizing, staring at the glowing clock display until his eyes water. Then he groans, swings his legs off the bed, and gives in to the inevitable.

—

Chuck gets across the city where they land and inside the raza terminal without thinking about it too much. It’s when he starts to type in his code for a money transfer that the whole thing hits him. The full, bizarre picture. He’s paying money to get transported nowhere and have sex with his best friend while both of them think they’re screwing a stranger. That’s what’s going on, that’s _it_ , he wants so badly to believe that this is something else but it is what it is.

Chuck pulls up a screen and uploads a program request to the computer system.

“ _You have uploaded an override code,_ ” the computer says. “ _Do you wish to proceed without anonymity?_ ”

“Yeah,” says Chuck, and then, because he’s been hanging around Dutch and ROTH for too long not to be polite and—hey, this computer’s been pretty cool so far—adds, “I mean—yes, please.”

“ _You cannot override only one partner’s amnesia program._ ” The computer sounds skeptical. _“You are attempting to use a memory-wipe sex service without the memory wipe. This is not how this facility was intended to be used, and the Psycheros Corporation takes no responsibility for the effects of the override. Do you wish to proceed?”_

“Yes, please.”

A beat, then the computer apparently gives up on his weird human idiosyncrasies. “ _The company appreciates your dedication to using our facilities for fully non-anonymous sexual encounters, user Chuck,”_ it says wearily. “ _Your partner will be delivered an error message informing him of the anonymity override._ ”

“Wait!”

A pause. Then, “ _Yes?_ ”

“If it’s…” a deep breath, another one. “If it’s my usual partner, um. Can you not tell him I did anything?”

The computer is silent for a moment. “ _That would be perpetuating false information._ ”

“I know, you guys don’t lie, but could you just—you don’t have to say it didn’t happen, but can you just…not say it did? Please?”

More silence, then, “ _That isn’t directly contradicted by my programming,”_ says the computer resignedly. Chuck waits, hopefully, and after another second the computer makes a huffy, frustrated noise lifted straight from some unsatisfied customer. “ _…Acknowledged. No error message will be passed on. I hope you know what you’re doing, Chuck.”_

“I do,” says Chuck, who absolutely doesn’t. “Thank you so much, uh… Can…can you confirm who he is, for me? When I come back?”

“ _Acknowledged,_ ” says the computer. “ _You know how to do this part._ ”

“Not even gonna bother, huh?”

“ _Just lie down in the pod._ ”

—

.

**Session 8**

.

—

Chuck knew, intellectually, who his partner was. There wasn’t really any doubt, logically.

Seeing the picture still makes him choke on his own spit. The computer, apparently with a slightly vindictive sense of humor, reminds him as soon as he wakes up that he requested confirmation of his match, and before Chuck could even finish remembering what that meant, it had popped up a picture. It isn’t even just a normal mug shot; in the photo Mike’s head is thrown back against a pillow, hair mussed, pink-cheeked. His bare chest and shoulders are streaked with sweat, his lips are slightly parted, flushed like somebody just kissed him. There’s a barely-visible blur of blond hair in the corner of the picture, and Mike’s eyes are fixed on it, dark and wet and half-closed and wow. _Wow._

“ _Are you satisfied with your service?_ ” the computer asks, without even a trace of audible sarcasm.

“Holy _shit_ ,” says Chuck, strangled and high-pitched. “And—wait, and you _knew_ about this?”

“ _After several meetings, yes.”_

“You didn’t _tell_ me?!”

“ _That would be directly in opposition to my confidentiality protocol,_ ” says the computer. “ _Besides. Humans do not come here for logical reasons. Their emotions are not logical. Informing you of your partner’s identity might have caused conflict._ ”

Dammit, Chuck can’t even tell it it’s wrong. He _would_ have flipped his shit if the computer had come out and told him _are you aware your partner is…_

“I’m such a dumbass,” he says instead, to the empty room. “And…he didn’t know?”

“ _Lying is not a function I have bothered to cultivate,_ ” says the computer, and it almost sounds offended. “ _He received no system alert regarding your override.”_

So…Mike knew who Chuck was. And he stayed. Chuck dares to glance at the picture of Mike again and then has to cover his face, muffling a slightly hysterical half-giggle.

“ _He is in pod 23T on the opposing side of the building,”_ says the computer mildly, and Chuck tries to ignore the definite _pointed_ tone of its blank voice. “ _No bio-printed bodies were necessary, he is conscious and dressed. Would you like me to notify him that you're—”_

 _“No!”_ Chuck yelps. “No, are you nuts?!”

A silent beat. “ _No,_ ” says the computer. “ _I am a computer.”_

“Quit it, I know you know what I meant!” And then the rest of the sentence registers. Chuck’s mouth drops open. “You didn’t _copy_ us? I just walked in there— _I_ just walked in there, like, my body?!”

 _“It would be unnecessary to create physical copies and raise your session cost, when matched partners are in adjacent pods,”_ says the computer blandly. “ _Temporary memory-wipe technology is proven safe, effective, and less expensive. At no point beyond your first session were you reprinted by the terminal._ ”

It makes absolutely no sense for it to be more embarrassing for Mike to have been touching his real body instead of a perfectly-identical copy with a mental relay to Chuck's brain, but somehow it definitely is. Chuck crumples back down on the side of the pod and groans. The _bruises_ on Mike’s neck. He would never have bruises like that if his temporary bio-printed body was the one that went in instead of him. Haha what the fuck.

“ _Humans,_ ” sighs the computer.

“Oh, shut up.”

The computer beeps insolently at him, but doesn’t say anything.

—

They leave by different doors, but they arrive back at the ship at exactly the same time. Mike has his collar turned up over new bites and bruises on his collarbones and neck, Chuck is rolling his shoulders to feel the smooth warmth of his loosened neck muscles and they’re both so distracted they almost walk into each other.

“Oh!” says Mike. “Hey man!”

“Hey,” says Chuck, and shoves his hands in his pockets so he can’t give himself away fidgeting. “You look good.” And a few nights ago that would have come out bitter, hurt, but this time it’s genuinely pleased. Mike blinks and then smiles cautiously. “Good night?”

“Yeah,” says Mike. He sounds kind of choked. What a stupid, great guy. “Yeah, really—really good.”

“Cool,” says Chuck, “Me too.”

They walk in silence up to the hold, climb the steps to the second level and then they reach the split of the corridors at the top of the stairs and at the same second both of them…hesitate.

“Listen,” says Mike. “Uh…I’m sorry I’ve been so weird the last couple weeks.”

Oh. Oh god, no, it’s nice of him to want to try but watching Mike apologize is painful at the best of times. He’s so _earnest._

And it’s really sweet of him to do this, even though he wouldn’t remember, would he? The session is distinct from the outside world, Chuck only knows for sure because he got photo confirmation. Mike doesn’t know and he’s still apologizing, god, he’s a better best friend than Chuck could ever deserve.

“I was trying to be a good captain,” Mike is saying, when Chuck tunes abruptly back in, “I didn’t mean to be a bad friend, but I think I kinda was, y’know, so—”

“Mike,” Chuck says, as gently as he can, and Mike immediately cuts off, waiting, almost nervous. “Mikey, don’t—don’t worry about it. It’s cool.”

Mike shakes his head. “No, it’s not. Look, dude, you’ve got your own life, and…you were right, it’s not my job to tell you what to do. Unless, y’know, it’s a captain thing. But it’s not. I’m really sorry.”

Agh, god.

“Look,” says Chuck, and puts both hands on Mike’s shoulders, not quite brave enough to meet his eyes. “Okay, look. I know…you get, uh…y’know, and what I’ve been doing isn’t exactly totally safe, but…I know the risks.”

Mike’s mouth twists a little bit, like, _I’m not really 100% sure you do, dude,_ but he doesn’t say anything.

“I _do_ know the risks,” Chuck repeats firmly. “You think I haven’t heard the horror stories, or what? But you gotta trust me on this one. The guy I’m meeting is a good dude, he’s not gonna hurt me.”

Mike stares at him, bites his lip, breaths out through his nose. “You don’t remember anything about him, though,” he says, and there’s just the slightest edge of a question, a lingering trace of uncertainty. Chuck looks him in the eyes and…hesitates.

“…No,” he says. “Just that he’s…really great. Makes me—y’know, feel good. Shut up and hug me.”

The logical part of his brain pours regret and shame down his spine. Chuck closes his eyes and squeezes Mike and tries to ignore the doubts, the negativity, the anxiety, the stupid knee-jerk self-hatred. He’ll tell Mike. He’ll tell him tonight, he’s going to. But not now, not like this. It has to be perfect and private and… _perfect._ If Chuck messed this up, if he lost all his chances with Mike—or, god, if he drove Mike away completely, if they couldn’t even be friends anymore—he couldn’t live with himself.

“Sorry _,_ ” Mike mumbles again. “ _…_ Was bein’ a jerk _._ ”

“It’s okay.”

“You sure?”

God he’s cute. Chuck has to grin, big and wide and stupid—buries the expression in Mike’s shoulder, the worn leather of his coat. “Totally sure.”

“Okay.” Mike squeezes him one last time and pulls away, smiling wide. “…Cool.”

They go their separate ways after that. Mike seems unfazed by the muggy, smoky air of the terminal, but Chuck needs a shower. Logically, he knows that the transfer pod washed him down and dry-cleaned him like a cheap clothing-maintenance terminal, but he still feels weirdly sticky.

He makes it halfway through the shower before the image swims back up in front of his eyes—the image of Mike that the computer gave him, flushed and dark-eyed. After that, he doesn't get much cleaning done at all. It's a slow build to getting off, takes a while, and he knows his own body well enough to know it's because he's already gotten off today, and it was _Mike,_ it was with _Mike._ He doesn't know what happened, but he's never needed to before. He has plenty of imagination to work with—Mike pinning him down in the training room, breathless and grinning. Mike, laid out gasping on his bed, hands clenched in Chuck's beat-up sheets, unstrung with pleasure. Dismantled by it, all the pieces of him—

Chuck leaves red tooth-marks on one of his forearms muffling a strangled scream, sagging against the shower wall. Hits his elbow, knocks his forehead, barely feels it. He can almost feel the endorphins rush through his system, loosening whatever tension is left in his muscles and slowing the frantic racing of his thoughts. He lets himself stand there, leaning against the wall, warm water and hazy satisfaction washing away everything he was worried about.

The worry comes back again when he gets out of the shower, but it feels easier to handle now that he's clean and dressed again. Chuck wanders through his room, finds some clothes that don't smell bad and wanders back out of his room, toweling his hair. The metal of the floor is cold under his feet, and for once it feels grounding, not uncomfortable. The dark corners of the ship aren't creepy anymore, even with Dutch's many-eyed monsters peering around them.

He eventually finds the other Burners in the kitchen. Dutch and Julie are sitting at kitchen chairs next to the table, which has been summarily shoved to the side of the room. In the place where it used to be, Mike and Texas are down on the ground, apparently having a push-up competition while ROTH keeps count. Julie glances up when Chuck comes in, grins and rolls her eyes, waving. Chuck picks his way over, edging around Mike and Texas, and settles on a chair next to her, still scrubbing at his hair.

"Welcome back," says Julie, and waves a hand. "This is happening, I guess."

"Yeah, I guess!" says Chuck, and glances over, letting himself look for a split second before tearing his eyes away and focusing on her again. “Uh… _Why_ though?”

Julie sighs. “Mike said something about feeling like he could bench the whole ship,” she says, long-suffering. “Texas said he could lift a whole space station and somehow it turned into…this.”

“Uh…okay?” That’s a weird thing for Mike to say, he must be really keyed up about something. Chuck briefly considers the idea that not only did Mike-in-the-session not mind suddenly coming face to face with Chuck, they had stellar, mind-blowing sex and that’s why Mike feels so good. Then he has to turn away abruptly and go stick his face into the refrigerator to hunt for food, pretending his face isn’t burning.

“Still feeling good, Cowboy?” Julie says behind him, and Mike laughs breathlessly.

“Definitely!” He does another pushup as Chuck drags himself reluctantly back out of the fridge, setting muscles flexing up and down his arms and across his back. This is the point where Chuck would, once upon a time, have hurried out of the room and found something else to do—this time he watches, lets himself stare. Hesitates, and then gives in and reaches into his internal programming.

If there’s a benefit to the endless mechanization surgeries, it’s the ability to silently, imperceptibly set his eyes to record in high definition.

—

It's a good night. The wild, edgy energy that's been putting Chuck on edge for weeks now seems to have eased, and Mike is in a great mood, flushed and dark-eyed and hanging on Chuck's shoulder the whole afternoon.

It also turns out to be a game night. Most nights are a game night of some sort. Everybody has their one or two hobbies they do on their own, but when you're all locked up on one tiny ship together, games are all there really is to do all together. Every so often there’s a night where nobody has anything else they really want to do, and the cabin fills up with frayed game boards and half-missing sets of game-pieces.

They play Chuck's home-brew five-person Chaos Speed-Chess, then play poker, and Texas smokes all of them. They play Beggars And Babes, which is actually two different terrible board games that Texas lost pieces from and then threw into one box. They play a round or two of very bad Enchantment: The Convocation, then charades, which ROTH is ridiculously good at. Then Mike and Texas break off to get into a good-natured fist-fight and Dutch pulls Chuck and Julie into a game of Seven Continents, which is way too numbers-intensive for the other two to enjoy.

Mike's cheek is rough when he comes back and flops down on the couch to rest it on Chuck's head, and he smells like sweat when he swings his arm back around Chuck's shoulders, but that's okay. That's perfect.

It's been a long time since everybody was in the same place, and it's been even longer since it felt normal. The night eventually settles into a soft, comfortable quiet. Texas is sprawled over a couch sideways, legs dangling over the end as he watches something on his goggles—Dutch is messaging somebody. Julie has curled herself up on Chuck's other side, looking over his shoulder with interest as he browses lazily through pages of space-faring life-hacks and commentating sleepily on them as they go.

Eventually, ROTH comes back into the cabin from wherever the heck he spends his free time. He taps his wrist, then makes a mangled warbling noise and gestures tactfully at the screen hovering above his forearm.

“2250, seriously?” Mike groans and shifts, stretching. Chuck, who was practically dozing off against his shoulder, jumps and blinks awake again, staring around. “ROTH, what’s Deluxe time?”

“6:23,” Chuck says automatically, still groggy, and pushes himself up with a yawn. “PM. Geez, I’m going to bed.”

“Yeah, me too.” Mike reaches down and shakes Julie’s shoulder gently—she grumbles, curling up tighter. “Come on, Jules.”

“Don’ wanna,” says Julie stubbornly, and buries her face in a pillow.

“It’s gonna be curfew in like half an hour on Deluxe,” Mike persists. “I don’t want you to get stuck outside when the lights go out, come on.”

“Texas will carry her or whatever,” Texas says, still hanging on the end of the couch.

“ _No,_ ” says Julie, affronted, and somehow goes from curled up to standing in one quick movement. Texas snorts and goes back to his movie, shaking his head. “Okay, okay, I’m going! Sheesh, since when are you Mr. Responsible?”

“Mike’s always Mr. Responsible when it comes to bedtime,” says Chuck solemnly, and sidles toward the door. “See you guys tomorrow.”

“Night,” says Dutch absently. He’s in the middle of a sketch on a tablet, and doesn’t look likely to be done any time soon. Once or twice, Chuck has said goodnight to Dutch and woken up the next morning to find him in the exact same place, surrounded by empty coffee mugs and discarded sketches.

Julie’s room is the first one in the hallway full of sleeping quarters; she reaches way up to sleepily ruffle Chuck’s hair, pecks Mike on the cheek and then keys in her code and vanishes into her room. Chuck wonders, sometimes, how sleeping in a transferred body _works_ —he’ll have to ask some time. Although, if he mentions it to Julie, she might start giving him knowing looks again, asking about his mystery guy. Which, _agh_. Chuck really can’t deal with that right now.

“—Some time.”

“Huh?” says Chuck, and then almost stumbles as Mike catches his elbow. “What?”

They’re standing at the wall between their two rooms. Mike is stopped in front of his own door, apparently waiting for Chuck to answer…whatever he just said. Chuck shakes off what he was thinking about and pulls up a smile. “Sorry dude, I was a million light-years away. What’s up?”

“I said, uh…” Mike hesitates, then smiles this— _weird_ smile, kind of half-shy, half-suggestive in a way that makes Chuck’s heart abruptly flip-flop in his chest. “We should…go get a drink some time. Just us, y’know.”

Holy shit. Holy shit this is happening, oh god. Don’t panic, _don’t panic._ Chuck can do this, he can answer like a normal person, he can go out and have a drink, and, and—like a _normal person_ , he can _do_ this.

... _Except you can’t, can you?_ Snipes a nasty little voice at the back of his mind, and Chuck’s stomach clenches abruptly. _Hey, look at it this way, this time when you get party-drugged and start falling over begging for it, you’ll be able to remember—_

“Oh!” says Chuck, high and panicky, too loud and still not quite loud enough to drown out that stupid, poisonous voice. “Yeah I mean—sure, I mean last time I got a drink it didn’t go real well but—”

He knows he’s said the wrong thing immediately—Mike’s face falls, his shoulders slump a little. “Right,” he says, hard and tight and regretful, and Chuck has been friends with him long enough to be intimately familiar with how it looks when Mike blames himself for something. “Geez, right, what am I talking about? Sorry, dude.”

“What?” Shit. “No, Mike, no. Listen, that’s not what I meant. I like hanging out with you, dude, you’re my best friend.”

A kind of pained twitch tenses Mike’s shoulders. He smiles an awful, weird, awkward smile and goes “Haha, yeah! So, uh.”

Chuck groans out loud and rakes a hand through his hair. Mike blinks, startled and concerned and still _embarrassed_ and still weirdly shy and Chuck has gotten so good at reading Mike’s face over the years but god only knows what that face he’s making is supposed to be. Sad or embarrassed or angry or guilty or literally anything.

There has to be a way to salvage this. For just a second it was dark and quiet and Mike was smiling at him like Chuck was something special, and now that feeling is gone and Chuck doesn’t know how to get it back— And it’s _not_ by explaining how Chuck feels about the drugged-drink thing, how it makes him feel humiliated and stupid and gullible. Mike doesn’t _get_ stuff like that. If Chuck tries to explain, Mike is going to go _oh, buddy_ … and look at Chuck like he’s some kind of—sad, injured animal. That would be intolerable, right now.

“You’re right,” says Mike finally, after a beat of awkward, frozen silence. Chuck startles out of his horrified reverie; Mike is shaking his head, half-laughing. “Yeah, ha— Sorry, no, totally, dude. It was a dumb idea, forget it.”

“Mike…”

“Have a nice night, buddy,” says Mike, and when he smiles this time it’s almost back to normal, only the faintest hint of that weird, painful whatever-it-was locked up behind his eyes. “See you tomorrow.”

“Mike—”

Mike is already gone, nothing to talk to but a whipping coat-hem as the door slides shut behind him.

—

Chuck gets ready for bed in a meditative state of mind. Some part of him, a familiar, poisonous, churning part of his mind, is whispering all kinds of stuff. _You messed it up, you ruined it, just throw yourself out the airlock._ The rest of him is…weirdly hopeful.

 _Dating_ Mike…

There’s been so much going on in their lives for so long, so much running and so much fighting and now all this stupid raza stuff, Chuck never really even considered… _showing_ Mike he was interested. Maybe not even telling him, just…making it clear Chuck’s interested. He’s not sure how he would go about it—Mike wouldn’t notice flirting if it punched him in the face, and it’s not like it’s Chuck’s strong suit either. But still.

He stares at himself, taking in his own face as he brushes his teeth, thoughts still whirring away at a mile a millisecond. Mike almost definitely came out of that mess just now thinking that Chuck wasn’t interested in going out and…getting drinks, like, at all. Which, okay, to be fair, he’s not wrong. But it’s not like Chuck would have said “no” flat out just because going out to a bar isn’t his favorite idea for a—

…For a _date._ A _first date._ God.

Just approaching the thought of _dating,_ of _boyfriends,_ of _making out with Mike but you actually remember it this time,_ it’s all _really_ overwhelming. Chuck stops at his sink, covers his face with both hands and does a couple of deep, counted breaths until the electric buzz of panic subsides again. The excitement at the idea blends too seamlessly into the terror at the thought of a change that huge, that— _life-changing._ One second it feels like pure excitement, like Chuck could run into the next room and do something crazy any minute. The next second it feels like pure terror, like running for his life, like getting shot at but a hundred times worse.

Chuck crawls into bed, buries his face in his pillow, and screams until he runs out of air. It helps, surprisingly, if only a little. And with the soundproofing on these rooms, he doesn’t even have to worry about awkward questions—or about knowing what goes on in the rooms next door, which is good, because Texas sleep-talks. And because he doesn’t need to know if Mike—if anything is happening over there. If there wasn’t soundproofing when they took this ship, Chuck would have had to install some.

Chuck flops over in bed, sprawls out, and stares up at the dark ceiling for sixteen minutes and exactly fifty-nine seconds. Then he groans abruptly in disgust, pushes himself up, and creeps as quietly as he can out into the hallway and down one door.

Mike is definitely still awake when he comes in, and definitely hears the door open, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t look over when Chuck crawls carefully onto the bed either—just sitting, for now, with a healthy distance between them. Waiting.

For a long minute he thinks Mike isn’t even going to acknowledge him. But then finally Mike breathes out, long and slow, and shifts minutely, opening up a spot to lie down.

Chuck does, lying close to the edge, not touching. He can see the fabric between Mike’s shoulder blades shift as he breathes.

“…So…” Chuck starts, quiet and cracked in the silence.

“No,” Mike says, quiet but firm. He’s still not turning over, but his voice sounds weird, rough. The hopeful part of Chuck winces down into a tight, painful little knot. “Not tonight, dude. Okay?”

For just a second, Chuck almost asks anyway, forces himself to keep pushing. But he doesn’t want to either, it’s— _scary_ and hard and complicated, and Mike doesn’t want to talk about it, so why should Chuck? It’s too much.

“Okay,” he says instead, and puts a hesitant hand on Mike’s arm. Not edging any closer, not holding onto him, just squeezing one upper arm as tight as he dares. “…Sorry. I didn't mean—”

“’S fine,” says Mike, and shakes his head slowly, a barely-visible shift in the darkness. “Don’t worry about it.”

Mike’s breathing evens out, after a while, going deep and slow. Chuck tries to match it, slowing himself down. Closes his eyes. When he rests his hand right next to Mike’s back, he can just barely feel the warm fabric of Mike’s shirt brush his knuckles whenever he breathes in.

It’s been twenty-three minutes since Mike fell asleep, and Chuck is about two breaths from following him, when a sudden break disrupts the steady rhythm of Mike’s breathing. He twitches, takes a sharp, hoarse gasp and then shifts uneasily. “ _Mnnh,_ ” he mumbles, barely audible, and shudders all over, shifting sharply. A moment of silence. Mike takes deep breaths, obviously forcing himself to keep them long and even.

Jeez, another nightmare? Hiding out from Kane has really got Mike on edge, he usually only has the dreams every week or so. Chuck is just about to ask if he’s okay when Mike pushes himself up abruptly, swings his legs off the side of the bed and gets up. The bathroom door slides open, throwing a band of light over the bed, and then it shuts again.

Well…okay, if he wants to handle it himself that’s his business. It doesn’t seem like one of the angry dreams, the ones that make him punch walls until his knuckles bleed—he probably just needs to splash some water on his face, maybe sit in the light for a bit—

_Connecting_

_Connecting_

_?: hey_

Chuck stares at the word for a full minute and a half before he can make his hands move. Has to remind himself, Mike doesn’t know. He wouldn’t have thought to ask the raza computer system for a confirmation picture, he doesn’t have memories from their sessions any more than Chuck does, he _doesn’t know._ Play it cool, play it cool.

_C: hey stranger._

_?: oh ur up!!!_

_?: didnt wake u up right??_

_C: no. what’s up?_

_?: not much_

_?: had a dream about u again_

_C: yeah?_

_?: a good dream ;)_

The words take a second to register, and then Chuck feels his whole face go abruptly hot.

_C: Wow._

_C: How good?_

_?: woke me up_

_C: In a good way?_

_?: oh yeah_

Chuck stares straight ahead and doesn’t look at the light from under the bathroom door.

_?: f i didn’t wake u up why u awake??_

_C: I can’t sleep._

_?: :( rough_

_C: I get nightmares, I’m used to it._

_?: u should find s/body to hold on to_

_?: that helps_

Chuck has to stop at that, smile helplessly at his screen for a second or two. Chuck’s been Mike’s “somebody to hold onto” for years now. For some reason the concept of Mike trying to give him advice about this stuff is just really, really cute.

_C: I’m good. I’m with a friend_

_?: yeah??_

_C: he helps me sleep._

_?: should i b jealous?? ;)_

Chuck stares at his screen for a long, long second before he can bring himself to reach out his hands for the keyboard.

_C: We’re not fucking if that’s what you’re asking._

_C: Pretty sure he’s never been into me like that._

_?: i_

Silence for a minute. Chuck waits, watching. Barely breathing. _Go on, say something._

_?: i wasnt gonna say that_

Dammit. Of course he wasn’t. Doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter. It’s cool.

_C: what do you want me to say?_

_C: no, we’re not //intimate//._

_?: stopit u know what I mean_

_C: He doesn’t like it when I swear either, says I’ve got a dirty mouth_

_?: sounds about right from what i remember_

_C: Oh come on, like you don’t love my dirty fucking mouth._

And then, on a rush of impulse, before he can stop himself,

_C: like you don’t love fucking my dirty mouth. ;)_

Chuck stares at the messages for a split second as they send, horrified and amazed by his own fingers, and then jumps at the muffled clatter as, in the bathroom, Mike knocks the soap over.

_?: ikmlmmmk,.,lm ._

...And then puts his hand through his screen, apparently. 

_?: shoot sorry_

_?: I_

_?: wow_

Holy shit that's hilarious.  And kind of weirdly adorable. 

_C: what?_

_?: didnt expect that_

_?: is all_

_C: Yeah?_

_?: yeah_

_?: i_

_?: i want u right now_

It’s silent for a second. In the bathroom, Mike isn’t moving. Chuck resists the urge to scream into a pillow again, hyperventilates for a second and then forces his breathing steady, counts the seconds until he can type without his hands shaking.

_C: so if you were here_

_C: what would you do?_

For another long, long moment there’s silence. Nothing from the bathroom, no messages. Chuck holds his breath, stares at the screen so hard his eyes burn, and waits.

_?: u rly wanna know??_

Oh god. Oh god why is he doing this but also oh _god_ yes.

_C: yeah_

_C: go on._

_?: id kiss u first_

_?: rly nice + easy so u could get used to it but i wouldn stop until u were gasping_

_?: see if i could get u weak at te knees_

_Shit,_ shit.

_C: I can_

_C: imagine_

_?: y??_

_?: how about how id put bruises all the way up ur neck??_

_?: u imagining that?_

Chuck glances back at the bathroom door, chews his lip and then gives in. Neither of them remember, Mike _doesn’t remember._ It’s fine. He’s just…frustrated because things are complicated out here, but his mystery guy, that’s simple, right? And Chuck—shoot, Chuck even suggested this, cybering was Chuck’s idea in the first place, agh. And it’s a terrible idea, but it’s also very…intriguing, in a distractingly breathless, physical way. That reckless fire is spiraling back up in his gut.

Chuck bites his lips and rolls onto his back, rearranging as quietly as he can so he’s leaned up on the pillows. His hands hover over the keyboard for a second.

Mike, kissing his way up the side of Chuck’s neck with the same burning, iron-hard intensity in his eyes he devotes to winning a fight…

Chuck takes a deep, shaky breath and lowers his hands to the keys.

_C: god yeah_

_C: Like how I’m imagining you moaning when I pull you away from me by your hair_

_C: or how your voice cracks when you try to talk dirty to me_

_?: wow_

The memories are still nothing but a hazy echo in the back of his mind, but some things resonate with them, some thoughts bring back a sense of disorienting deja vu, and Chuck squeezes his eyes shut and takes a shot in the dark.

_C: I could fuck you again if you were here right now_

_?: jeez dude slow down before u scare me off!! ;D_

_?: u gotta woo me yknow??_

_?: i like some romance_

_C: I could be romantic_

He’s only half-watching as his fingers type, listening to fragments of words in his head, pieces of sensations and scattered bits of dialogue _._ The part of him that’s sobbing at the back of his brain ( _terrible idea,_ terrible idea _this is a TERRIBLE IDEA)_ is getting completely overruled, minute by minute, breath by breath.

_C: Or I could get you on your back with your legs on my shoulders again and make you howl_

He _hears_ Mike catch his breath even from the bathroom, let it out in a breathless little whining sound. Hears the distinctive sound of somebody shoving their jeans off in a hurry and feels everything from his ribs to his knees _throb_ even as panic and embarrassment electrifies his spine.

_?: god_

_?: oh my go d_

_C: shit sorry_

_C: I’m really sorry, I don’t know why I said that_

_?: NO_

_?: no no no it sgood youe goo d_

_?: keep going??_

Oh. _Oh_.

He’s quieter when he shoves a hand into his pants—score 1 for sweatpants—but he has to bite his tongue and cover his mouth with one hand to hold in a high gasp when he gets a hold on his dick. Everything is desperately oversensitive. But—

Wait, wait wait. No. If he’s going to be stupid about this—god, and he is, he so is, he can’t even start to think about resisting the urge—he can at least be smart about being stupid.

“Mmh,” Chuck says out loud, and shifts audibly in bed. “—Mike? You okay?”

Dead silence.

“…Yeah?” Mike’s voice is impressively even.

“ROTH’s pinging me, I gotta go take care of something.”

_C: you like that, huh?_

“Yeah,” says Mike again, just a second too late, and even through the door he sounds rough and breathless.

_?: geez dude ys dont sotp_

Chuck shoves himself up, shaky on his legs, staggers to the door of Mike’s quarters and pauses there, closing his eyes, reaching into the ship’s oldest, least-used systems. It takes some digging, but this boat used to be an impounded smugglers’ ship and it can only be a matter of seconds before he’s got access to the ancient surveillance bug in the door’s keypad.

It’s…really not _good,_ it’s not a thing a good person should do, probably, but that new, reckless, rushing feeling is rising and Chuck only hesitates for a second before stepping determinedly through the door and flicking the bug on. The faint sound of Mike’s staticky breathing is suddenly clear in his comm.

His own bed feels cold and weird after getting so comfortable in Mike’s, but that doesn’t matter, right now. Chuck locks the door, double-checks the lock, triple-checks, and then drops back on the bed and _finally_ shoves his pants down, groaning aloud to the empty room.

When he starts typing again it’s faster, shakier. Even using his neural interface to type, he gets distracted. Extra letters slip in.

_C: didn’t mean to leave you hanging_

_C: just getti ng some space_

_C: where waas I?_

_C: oh right, I was fucking you_

Now that Mike’s heard Chuck leave the room he’s not holding back either—this time the trembling moan he lets out is completely audible. The bug in the keypad picks it up loud and clear.

_?: i wish_

Chuck has to reread that message three times before he manages to pull up his keyboard again, dry-mouthed.

_C: I bet you do._

_C: me to o_

Mental typing is so much harder when he’s distracted, but that’s fine, it’s good. Everything is okay right now. He keeps typing, barely bothering with trying to remember now, more spelling out fantasies than searching for memories. Guilty imagined scenes from long nights muffling his stupid too-loud noises in his pillow, imagining Mike in the next room over, imagining how easy it would be to slip into bed with him like always and—

_C: on your back I cld bite your neck and mark yuo up_

_C: and see your face and hear you andyoud looks o good I almost can’t deal with it and_

_C: when I fucked yyou really hard ibet youd rlly whimper for me itd be so hot I wat to do it sso bad_

Another moan, strangled and faint but completely audible. Chuck squeezes his eyes shut for a long second, panting, and then lets out a single, cracked noise—the soundproofing holds. There’s not even a hitch in the sound of Mike’s panting breaths.

_?: id be go_

_?:od_

_C: I know you would be._

_C: are you touching yourself rn?_

_?: yss_

_C: stop._

He hears the strangled whimper through the mic a long second before Mike manages to type back

_?: pls_

The sudden sharp sting of breathless disbelief feeds on the rushing surge of recklessness, hotwires Chuck’s heart, makes him arch into his hand and choke back a moan.

_C: sounds like y oure ltill one handed_

_C: are you tryig to ask me something?_

_?: please dontmake m stop pl ease_

_C: I can almost see what your face would look like_

_?: can i please k_

_C: hands on your kybaord._

_?: eep touchin_

_C: STAY._

Another whimper, and then silence. He can hear the stillness, hear Mike sitting still and panting, and a terrible, wonderful idea bubbles up temptingly in the back of his brain. He shouldn’t, he _really_ shouldn’t, but…

_C: switch to voice transcription for me_

He hears Mike give the order—the computer doesn’t know what to make of his ragged, halting words, but Chuck manually overrides from where he is, distracting himself with slow, almost teasing strokes as he messes with the settings.

_C: say something._

“I don’t—know what to say,” says Mike, soft and breathless. The words scroll out on the screen a second later. _?: I don’t know what to say._ “Can I—I mean, is it okay if I…?”

_C: you can keep going._

_C: ***s_ _lowly***_

_C: Like I woud if ii was there I’d touch youw so slow an dgentle right now_

Mike groans again—a dull thud that might be his skull hitting the wall. “…You’re—such a _jerk,_ ” he mumbles, but there’s a sound to his voice, a slow shake, that makes Chuck think he’s following orders. “ _Mmh—_ Come on…”

_C: I can’t see what you’re doing, o im going to ha ve to trust you_

_C: but im’ pretty sure you’r fe goingto be good for me, right?_

_C: tell me what your’e doing_

It takes a second—when he speaks again, Mike’s voice is very soft, shaky.

“I’m…touching myself _,_ ” he says, halting, and after twenty-something years of fighting and running and sailing empty space, he’s never sounded so….vulnerable. So shy. “The way—how I wish you would.”

_C: you’re doing such a good job for me_

The words are simple, barely even suggestive, but Mike huffs out a breath like they’re a gut-punch. “ _Please,_ dude, come on _…_ ” His breathing is ragged enough now his comm picks up every few breaths, _nnh_ and _mm!_ and _[unable to parse]_ as he groans softly.

_C: do you like that?_

_?: Ah!_

_?: Yeah yes please yes I [unable to parse] so much, god—_ the words crack into a long, desperate moan in the middle.

_C: you’re doing great_

_C: you can squeeze a littl ebit harder_

A long, strangled groan; for a second Mike’s breathing goes so ragged and harsh he’s practically hyperventilating, choked and fast and deep. “ _God,_ ” he breathes again, “Oh _god_ oh my god _—_ ”

_C: nice and slow_

Mike huffs through his teeth, takes a few rough, panting breaths. “…C-come on, dude, _please_ …”

 _Fuck_ that sounds nice. Holy crap. And some version of Chuck has been sneaking away and doing this stuff _with_ Mike, in the same room with him, _touching_ him. Hearing him make those noises firsthand, getting to—to…

It hurts, thinking about that. Being jealous of himself, somewhere he can’t remember going, doing things he can’t remember doing. He’s done so much stuff with Mike and he can’t remember any of it.

 _Good,_ Chuck types, letter by agonizing letter, and presses one wrist into his mouth to muffle his faint cries as he touches himself, hips jerking and twitching. The room may be soundproofed, but he doesn’t need to hear his own awful, high-pitched noises bouncing back at him. _Good job. Fastrer. you cn d do it. Hold on for me_

_?: I can’t, please I [unable to parse]_

_C: you cann ,youre doingg so good_

Mike makes a wordless, visceral noise at that, breath hitching desperately through a moan. In a sudden, vivid flash, Chuck remembers the look in Mike’s eyes when they were kids, when a commander would give him even the slightest hint of positive feedback. The quiet hunger in his eyes when somebody he likes and respects tells him—

_C: youre doing so good for me_

Chuck’s known Mike a long time, and he’s never heard him make a noise like that, soft and vulnerable and almost hurting. His breathing is so ragged now, he almost sounds like he’s sobbing.

_C: harder_

Mike mumbles something slurred and breathless, _“Ah_ yes, _please_ yes, can I _ah—”_

That’s so good, he’s so _hot_ , it’s fucking ridiculous.

_C: whnever you want_

_C: yr fine good youre so good_

_C: go ahead_

He can’t tell if he’s imagining it, but the sharp, breathless noise Mike makes a minute later is almost familiar. Like he’s heard it before, like he should _recognize_ this.

It’s that thought that shoves him over the edge, somehow, uncontrollable as a free-fall. Chuck has 0.3 milliseconds to register the controlled shutdown in half his implants, the sudden unregulated pound of his heart—the unfamiliar feeling of his body entirely his own, no upgrades, no enhancements—

When his brain clicks back into focus, his pre-programmed sub-routines tell him that the soft reboot after he came lasted 10.27 seconds. That his blood pressure is high but dropping, his heartrate is leveling out. That he still has an audio feed open.

_Mike._

Chuck gropes over to the bedside table, grabs clumsily for a box of tissues and cleans up as quickly as he can, listening to the faint, distant sound of Mike catching his breath. He doesn’t seem to be making any effort to move from where he is, so Chuck slows down, pulls his pants straight and gets up on wobbly knees.

He knows Mike can hear him when he opens the door and slips back into the room; Chuck can hear the catch in his breathing through the comm. He does his best to ignore it, shuffles over to the bed and slides into it, yanking the blankets hurriedly up over him. In the bathroom, there are faint footsteps, audible through the door and echoed a second later through the bug. Water splashing, a breathless huff. A mumble that even Chuck's comm can't pick up.

Chuck shuts off the bug in the bathroom door just as Mike starts to slide it open. He lies perfectly still as Mike comes across the room—Mike’s stride sounds unsteady, like his legs are still shaky.

Light falls over the bed; Mike's silhouette is thrown out long over the sheets, and Chuck could swear it has _weight,_ pressing him down into the mattress, crushing the air out of him. Behind him, Mike makes a noise so faint Chuck wouldn't have heard it if he'd been breathing. A sigh? Or a laugh, or…?

A warm weight dips the mattress. “… _Hey,_ ” Mike says, and for just a second it’s intensely intimate, warm and quiet and too close. Chuck makes a choked _mnnh?_ noise instead of words; Mike is apparently too sleepy and satisfied to notice. He wraps an arm around Chuck’s waist and nuzzles his face into the back of his neck, then sighs contentedly ( _god_ ) and goes still.

Chuck should say something. He needs to say something, _right now._

“…Mike?”

Mike mumbles and shifts vaguely.

“ _Mike._ ”

“Mm.”

“Listen, dude, y’know—”

“Mm.”

“Mike, seriously…”

“Mmhm,” says Mike. “…’M listening...”

“No you’re not.”

No response except one last sleepy, contented sigh. Then, muffled and ticklish against the back of Chuck’s neck, a faint snore.

“God _dammit_ ,” says Chuck, quietly but with great feeling.

He should really shake Mike back awake again, confront the issue head-on—but he’s sleepy and warm and there’s a heavy arm around his chest. Mike’s breath is warm and easy on the back of his neck, dreaming peaceful for once. He could wake Mike up and talk about it, or…or he could lie here, and enjoy the solid weight of Mike’s arm around him, weighing him down, slowing down the frantic racing of his heart.

One option is terrifying, and one option is agonizing, and Chuck falls asleep before he can figure out which one is worse.

—

The next day, Chuck wakes up because somebody is pinging his comm, over and over again. Mike is gone. The room is empty, quiet.

Chuck rolls over in bed, stares up at the ceiling for forty-two seconds, and then growls as another ping hits his comm, and pushes himself up.

When he gets out to the rec room, yanking his shirt on as he goes, everybody is already there. Chuck slows in the doorway, suddenly uncertain; this doesn't just look like a late breakfast, or even like another game in progress. Mike is wearing his coat, eyes hard and dark and focused. Julie stops in mid-pace as he comes in, head snapping up. Dutch is talking to ROTH, quiet and intense, head bent low, Texas is wrapping his fists.

"Chuck!" says Mike. "Good—you're here, good. I was gonna go get you in a second. We got somethin'."

"Something...big?" Chuck came through the door determined to grab Mike and pull him away, to finally stop being a coward and _talk_ —but there's an air of electric tension in the air, and—and Julie has her gun holster on, and Mike isn't smiling.

"Something _huge,_ " says Mike.

“Julie picked up some chatter,” Dutch says, and tosses a screen Chuck’s way; schematics, ledger files. “Kanecom is building again. On a planet _outside_ their territory.”

“What?” All of a sudden the grim, purposeful look on Mike’s face makes more sense, as does the coldness of Julie’s eyes. “They’re expanding again? I thought they didn’t have the resources—”

“They didn’t,” Julie says. “This has been in the works for _ages._ Kane just released the documents to the upper levels of his city 0 management, because he’s pulling troops to guard it.”

"On a border planet, though?" ROTH comes hurrying in with a lumpy bundle in his arms; Chuck accepts his jacket without question, and then balks as ROTH gives him a serious look and holds out a cartridge of plasma superchargers, pressing them into his palm. Just having them in proximity to his weapons system, even through the case, is enough to make his skin prickle and the power conduits under his skin burn. Chuck takes a deep breath and shoves them in his pocket. "Where are we looking at?"

"Hecate," says Dutch grimly.

"The—you mean the—"

"Biggest illegal trade hub in the known universe?" Julie says, and her voice is cold and hard but there's an edge of something almost like a hysterical laugh under it. "The place _every single gang_ buys and sells? Yeah, Chuck, _that_ Hecate."

"Oh," says Chuck faintly.

"I could only get out bits and pieces of the plans," Julie says, and Chuck flicks through half-distorted fragments of text, and feels a bright, sharp stab of anxiety shoot through him like a knife in the gut. "And the mission only just launched a few hours ago, but— It's not good."

"God," says Chuck shakily. Drags a hand through his hair. "These output estimates gotta be distorted, right? You said some of the stuff you got was scrambled..."

"Not this stuff," Julie says grimly. "If they get this factory established, it'll have an army of bots within a week. Sixteen Ultra-Golems every fortnight."

"Hecate's been set up to ditch if it gets bad for like a hundred years," Texas says, and grunts as he pulls the bandages tight on one wrist. His expression is bleak and stony. "...They'd get out. Most of 'em."

"And then Kane would have all the resources he needed to start expanding again," says Chuck slowly. It doesn’t feel real, even thinking about it. There’s been a balance for years, since he was a kid and the expansion of the Kane Combine finally ground to a halt, dragged to a standstill by its own greed. “He’d have a whole new army…”

"And a stranglehold on the trade for the whole galaxy," Mike finishes for him, and slams a fist down on the table, hard enough to bruise his knuckles. If it hurts, he doesn't acknowledge it, just pushes himself away from the table and takes his gun and holster from ROTH's arms. "ROTH, bud, I need you to get us in the air."

ROTH nods and goes still where he stands, head dropping, eye going dark. The ship shudders around them, systems firing up for the first time in weeks, and the strange weight of rising fast against gravity presses down. Mike is already turning away. "We've got three hours to figure out how to shut this down," he says, and spreads his arms. "Suggestions?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hecate, from the sources I could find, is associated with bargains, deals, crossroads and intersections, so I thought it was an appropriate name for a planet that is essentially Motorcity Lite. Either 1. the Duke is now the Duke of Hecate, a very different but also very cool title, OR 2. he's still the Duke of Detroit and nobody really knows why, haha.  
> He's not going to make an appearance in this fic, I'm just amused by the Duke having to find other things to be Duke of.


	8. 7 - Destroyed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Consciousness unsustainable. The unit is damaged. Consciousness unsustainable.

The factory is a pillar of white polymer, carving into and through the planet's landscape. Unnaturally straight edges, unyielding corners. Plain and simple and brutal, just the way Abraham Kane likes it.

Hecate was beautiful as they came out of FTL and into her airspace; the dark side covered in billions of glittering, multi-colored streams of light, the bright side glittering with incredibly broad, distant fields of solar panels. Chuck has been down on Hecate before, in the quiet, parched daytime and the dark, rowdy night, and it was a really good time—even if some of the gangs make him _really_ nervous, and the Duke is still not very kindly inclined to the Burner’s crew. It was loud and bright and breathless and _fun_.

The place Kane has set up his factory is anything but. Most of Hecate is populated, but there are some parts—too cold or too baking-hot, usually—where nobody has managed to make a town stick. This place is one of them.  The four squads of KaneCom elites standing at guard outside the single door are going to regret this assignment in a couple of hours here, when the sun goes from a cold gleam on the horizon to a baking, all-seeing eye—for now, they stand at strict attention, breath fogging faintly from their blank masks.

They're not stationed inside, Chuck is fully, painfully aware, because even Hecate’s desert heat is less fatal than the guardian drones hidden inside the massive, blank mass of the factory. They aren’t picky about their targets, and they’ll be hovering around the door like vultures, waiting for any bio-signature that dares to step inside. Even if the Burners could get past all the troops, going through that door would be suicide

It's a good thing they're not going in through the door.

In one pocket, Chuck is carrying a pack of plasma superchargers that could blow him in half if they were somehow compromised, and in the other one he's got a chip with four lines of passwords and three laughably simple pieces of code. He's not sure which one makes him more nervous.  He called in decade-old favors to get the codes he's carrying. And even with those favors, the only reason Chuck's contact agreed is that Julie promised him, his brother and his kids safe passage off Deluxe. It's dangerous for them and dangerous for Julie, but the harder KaneCom cranks the vice down on its people, the more people struggle to get free, filtering off the planet by any desperate means they can find. For some people, the Burners are those desperate means.

Right now, more than the contents of either of his pockets, what's worrying Chuck is the possibility of getting his face blown off.  Right now there are just troops on the outside and autopilot guardian bots on the inside, but once the factory reaches capacity it's going to start spitting out bots in massive swarms.  The bots inside would shoot anything that's not a bot; once they're deployed, they'll start targeting for real and the odds of lasery death start to increase exponentially by the second.

"Still think we shoulda just blasted this place from the ship," Texas is growling, somewhere off to the right. He sounds preoccupied, picking at the wraps on his hands, jittering in place on the other side of the exit hatch. He also doesn't sound like he minds. Texas never sounds sincere, when he complains about a fight; it's one of the many incredibly nerve-wracking things about him. Chuck is freakin' glad to have Texas on his side, but _god,_ he's so stressful to have as a teammate.

"We couldn't get the Burner close enough," Chuck says, and keeps his eyes on Dutch. He's got a tiny, seamless, almost invisible panel open, picking at the door's external systems with incredible care. "Our guns could barely scratch it anyway."

"Yeah, but—"

"Just focus on pulling as many bots as you can," Julie says firmly, and grins at him. "You can do that, you're the loudest, most obnoxious guy I know."

"Aw hey," says Texas, "Thanks, Julie. You're pretty loud too."

"You're welcome," says Julie. "It's not made for people to stay in there, okay? I don't know what it's going to be like, but it's not gonna be good. Try to stick to the higher levels, when it gets bad we want to already be gone."

"Got it," Dutch says, and twists his omni-tool in his hands, turning it from a delicate piece of equipment into a modified handgun with a tiny, fierce-looking pilot light flickering inside the barrel. "T-minus 60."

The reckless, angry, too-fast rushing feeling in Chuck's brain is back, clashing with the fear and anxiety and anticipation. He swallows hard on all of it, keeps his eyes on the door and his voice as casual as he can. "Actually, I've gotta get to the ground floor," he says. "That's where the control center is, from when they started the factory up."

"You _what_?" Julie almost fumbles her boomerang. "Chuck!"

"I can do it!" Chuck grabs the chip with the codes on it, holding it up defensively. "It'll take a couple of seconds per code, and then I'm on my way back up, we're outta here, it's _done._ "

"This wasn't the plan," Mike says, tight.

"I know," says Chuck, and tries to smile. It feels sickly and weird, but Mike hesitates, eyes flickering over his face, uncertain. "Come on, Mikey, trust me on this one."

"Forty seconds," says Dutch, hands hovering over the access panel. "Do you want me to stop it? We could—"

"There's no _time,_ " Chuck says, fiercer than he means to with the stress and the electric rush in his gut. "Mike, listen, I can get down there, type these in and get back up in no time, there's no time for another plan, I've got this, _trust me!_ "

"Thirty seconds," Dutch says, and glances at Mike. "...Mike?"

Mike holds Chuck's eyes for what feels like an eternity. Then he takes a deep, slow breath, and closes his eyes. "This is probably a bad idea," he says, more to himself than to Chuck—familiar words, but strange to hear in his voice. Chuck doesn’t answer, and Mike hesitates there for another few agonizing seconds before opening his eyes and glancing around the circle of his crew. Back to Chuck.

"...Okay," he says. "Okay. We do it your way, dude, but you better get back up here as soon as you're done."

"Right," says Chuck, "Yeah, right, yeah." He turns back to the door, finally breathing again, running through the route in his head—stairs, platform, platform, stairs. Staying low, avoiding the turrets—if they get too many bots in the air—

“Chuck,” says Mike, and catches his hand. Chuck comes up short, takes a breath and can’t think of what he was going to say.

“Wh—yeah?”

"Ten seconds," says Dutch.

“I…just…” Mike hesitates. He looks almost pained, like he’s fighting himself over something. His fingers thread through Chuck’s, squeeze gently. He opens his mouth a few times, then shakes his head, pulls Chuck in for a rough, one-armed hug. “…Be safe, dude,” he says, quiet and hoarse in his ear, and thumps his back a few times, heavy between his shoulder blades. “Okay?”

“Mikey,” says Chuck. “It’s _me_ , dude. When am I not safe?”

—

The air in the factory hits like a blast-furnace. Chuck started sweating as soon as they dropped through the access door—under his clothes he’s drenched, but where the heat hits his bare skin the sweat dries before it can even form drops. His skin feels tight and dry.

Chuck ducks behind a massive piece of machinery, fastened together with bolts the size of his fist, and breathes in air that burns his lungs.

“ _They're headed up toward me,_ ” Mike grits out in through the comms, and there’s an earsplitting _crack_ as a bullet hits something way too close to Mike’s head. “ _Move, move move!”_

“On it!” Chuck throws himself forward, running again, taking every staircase he can find. Right, right, left, down the stairs. “Do you need—?!”

“ _I've—got this!_ ” Mike grunts with effort—a distant _BOOM_ as somewhere, one of the bots goes down _._ “ _—For a couple minutes! Every time I kill one, two more show up!_ ”

 _"I sent out an intruder alert on the guards' comm channels_ ," Julie says—a second later something far away explodes as her boomerang tears a hole in something combustible. “ _They’ll draw some of the bots down by the door, clear the air a little—Chuck, be careful down there.”_

Somewhere in the echoing factory Texas lets out a war-whoop and something else explodes. Chuck grabs a railing as the whole walkway trembles, staring out over the pounding machinery and half-assembled bots, and sees Texas’s dark shape sprinting down a walkway toward another flurry of boxy, circling shapes with pinpoint mechanical eyes. Texas vanishes in a billow of steam; more distant yelling and the sound of gunfire.

And then something sings past Chuck’s ear and hits the railing by his hand with an earsplitting _CRACK_. It’s muscle memory more than conscious thought; the implant in his eye locks onto two bots as he spins around; boxy and matte black, swooping down toward him. His arm jerks up, weapons system already arming, and he gets one right in the thrusters, the other one in the eye. The first one goes into a tailspin, still shooting wildly, and Chuck dives for cover as the blinded one lets out a mechanical shriek of distress and starts firing too, peppering the walkway under his feet with bullets. Something hits him hard in the side, and then the bot finally overloads and destructs with a _WHOOMPF_ that seems to physically press him back.

Chuck stares at the place where the bot was, then slowly looks down at himself, at the brilliant patches of blood starting to spread across his shirt and trickle down his leg. The pain doesn’t register for a minute. He just stares, thoughts buzzing in useless circles as milliseconds tick by—how many, _how many_ , count, _think_. One, two, three bullets, one in his side and two in his leg, through the muscle of his thigh and oh, there’s the pain.

Chuck crumples over and throws up. ROTH’s data/voice pours into his head, suddenly concerned, _[unit status: navigator::CHUCK] <organic/damage/danger> [ALARM] _

Damage control. Damage control, think, _keep thinking_. These things were designed to be—painful, yeah, god, nauseatingly, cripplingly painful, but the hits aren't fatal. KaneCom likes living prisoners, for the factories that are still worked by humans. The damage isn't as bad as it feels. Probably.

_< organic/damage/danger> [ALARM]_

“ _What_?” Dutch’s voice, crackling through his comm. “ _Who? ROTH, buddy,_ who’s hurt?”

_< organic/damage/danger> [ALARM]_

“ _I’m—not—_ down,” Chuck gets out, even though his voice sounds very high and tight and far away. “I’m fine, I’m—good, I can still get there.”

“ _What_?!” Mike’s voice is loud enough Chuck winces. “No! _I knew this was— Agh, stay where you are, I’m coming to you_!”

_< organic/damage/danger> [ALARM]_

“Can’t,” says Chuck, and forces his brain to focus, forces the noise of gunfire out of his head. Looking for the right connections. The sickening throb of pain abruptly cuts out—along with all the feeling from a huge chunk of his side and his right leg. That’s fine. This is okay. “I’m okay.”

_[unit status: navigator::CHUCK] <deception/disbelief/concern/danger>[ALARM] _

“Nah,” says Chuck, and staggers down another flight of stairs toward a plain, almost understated control panel. It's half-hidden from the fighting behind a wall of giant, pounding machines, but half-hidden isn't going to do it for long. Chuck tries to pull up a screen, mumbles something filthy under his breath as his bloody hands slip on the controls. Tries again. "Head back up," he says, and starts typing. "The first one’s going in."

" _Chuck! How bad is it?"_

Chuck spares half a second to glance down at himself. there's blood trickling down his ankle now, wet fabric sticking to his leg. "I’m fine," he says, and frowns—that wasn’t convincing enough, too high-pitched, too shaky. He takes a second to micro-reboot, clears his throat, and when he starts again his voice is a lot steadier. "Start heading back _up_ , dude. I'll be right there." One down—sending junk signals to the bots' targeting systems. Chuck drops that screen, letting the program auto-run, and starts methodically working on the next one.

A yell startles him out of his focus for a second, and Chuck whips around to see a KaneCom commander sprinting in his direction, head down as the bots fire wildly, hitting people and machines and walls and floor at random. There's no time to hesitate, no time to think about it; Chuck clicks a supercharger cartridge out with one bloody thumb, presses it into his arm and lets off a blast that feels like it scorches the skin off his hand. The commander goes flying backwards into the mass of running security troops, blown off his feet, and the bots swivel toward the explosion and swoop down to renew fire on the cadets.

The others have been talking over comms. Chuck tunes vaguely back in and hears Mike saying something indistinct over the sound of fire— "— _clear!"_ and " _On my way!_ " Good. He’s finally listening to Chuck in an emergency, for approximately the first time ever.

It’s weirdly easier to focus when he’s going into shock. Chuck blinks distantly at the control panel and then starts typing again, quick and methodical, focusing all his remaining processing power. Fast, accurate. Can't fuck this up now. The bots that are in the air can't target, but that would be easy enough for KaneCom to fix if that's all he did; the second code goes after the machinery itself, the stuff that assembles the new bots. It's a machine-killer, yanking crucial steps out of the carefully pre-programmed assembly line. As he finishes and initializes it, he can hear the rhythm of the pounding machinery falter like a skipping heartbeat. Somewhere overhead, there's a piercing scream of metal twisting and a series of shuddering impacts. Chuck ducks his head, gasps in a burning breath, and turns to the last screen.

Mike is talking to him again. Chuck can't really focus on hearing and typing at the same time, so he didn't notice, but he sounds dangerously close to panicking. “ _Chuck?_ Chuck!”

“Busy, Mikey,” says Chuck dreamily, and leans heavily on the control console for a second as a wave of dizziness and nausea sweeps through him. _ALERT: BLOOD LOSS APPROACHING CRITICAL, PRESERVATION SHUT-DOWN—_ “Abort preservation protocol. Cancel— _Nnfh,_ cancel shut-down _._ ” His mind screams more alerts at him; Chuck grits his teeth and shuts down alarm after alarm, leaving his mind quiet and almost calm.

“What?!” Dutch grunts with effort—a booming shockwave of sound echoes out across the factory and somewhere in the smoke more bots explode. “ _Dude, what are you doin’ down there?_ ”

" _How—_ " Julie starts, and then a sharp, jagged scream of pain cuts through the thick, smoky air overhead. Chuck flinches, concentration broken—overhead people are yelling, running. Julie's comm comes back on a second later, and her voice is unmistakably tight with pain. " _I'm okay, I got it I'm okay! Lucky shot—got my—ffff_ fucking _gun arm—"_

" _Comin' up for you!_ " Dutch says. " _Chuck, you gotta get up here before this seriously breaks bad!_ "

"Almost done," says Chuck, or maybe just thinks it. “Be right there."

“ _How are you gonna get up here though?!”_ Texas actually sounds distressed, which is new. " _Is that blood—hey, I’m up here, is that you down there? Where are you hit?!"_

"Mm," says Chuck vaguely, because when he's missing probably like 80% of his blood or something he doesn't really have the energy for Texas, distressed or not. "Just a leg, it's fine—"

“ _Are you_ nuts?! _”_ Oh, distressed doesn’t even begin to cover how _Mike_ sounds. Well, shit. Chuck pulls up the last stolen code and starts opening the file carefully, one numeral at a time, trying to focus his eyes. Everything swims and blurs every couple of seconds.

When Chuck presses the last key, the entire building shakes. Toxic, red-orange screens burst into life all around him, flashing overhead in the fog like fireworks through heavy clouds. _FATAL ERROR_. Chuck spares a second to grin, then presses a hand over his bleeding side and takes off running, scaling the nearest flight of stairs two at a time.

He makes it up two flights and halfway down a dangerously thin walkway before the dizzy sickness comes back. The euphoria of success falters as his body does a hundred micro-shutdowns in a second, trying to refresh its way out of shock, and his body jerks and shudders out of his control. Chuck staggers the last ten feet to the next platform, leaning heavily on a creaking railing, and then as soon as he finds solid ground his right leg goes out from under him. He falls to his knees and then heavily on one shoulder, breathing hard, struggling to keep the pain sensors in his leg and side blocked—the metal mesh of the platform feels really hot against his cheek. Below him, machines whine and spin on smoking bearings, and the air drifting up swims and almost burns his skin. But he did it, so that’s okay. Disable the bots' guns, keep the factory from making more. Melt this place down like an ice cube in a blast furnace. Check, check and check.

Chuck closes his eyes. The countdown in his head is ticking down, but he’s still got approximately two and a half minutes—he’ll get up in just a second. He’ll get up and keep running. He’ll…get…

And then Mike drops through the clouds of smoke, lit up red, coat whipping behind him. He hits the ground rolling with a grunt of effort, lands on his feet and comes up already running.

“Come on, buddy,” he says, and grabs Chuck’s limp body, hauling it up onto his shoulders. His fingers slip over bloody fabric, and for just a second Chuck’s control wavers—the pain from his leg and side hits like a sledgehammer, head-spinning and nauseating. He distantly hears himself let out a pathetic half-scream of agony, trailing off into a breathless squeak as he runs out of air. Mike hisses through his teeth in response, regretful but still on the move, taking steps two at a time. “Sorry. Hold on!”

_ALERT: CRITICAL BLOOD LOSS SENSATION OVERLOAD ALERT CRITICAL ALERT ALERT ALERT, INITIATE SHUTDOWN—_

“ _Confirmed,_ ” Chuck mumbles—or tries to. His whole body feels weak and tingly, and his heartbeat pounding in his ears drowns out the sound of his own voice. “ _Shutting…down._ ”

—

Consciousness inflicts itself on Chuck like a sunrise—imperceptibly at first, but then everything is getting brighter and brighter and there are sounds and sensations and smells and _pain_.

There’s somebody holding his hand. Somebody says something to him, too loud and close, too fast and unexpected to understand. Chuck stares straight ahead as the hand holding his pulls away from him, and focuses on breathing.

It’s only after a long couple of minutes, in the silence after the door opens and closes, that he understands the words he heard.

_Sorry. Go back to sleep, sorry, I shouldn’t be here._

He’s trying to remember whose voice that is, and where he is, and what happened, when his brain fills with the words _ANALYSIS COMPLETED: CONSCIOUSNESS UNSUSTAINABLE, 32% FUNCTION_

_SHUTTING DOWN_

_—_

The ceiling of the medbay has a picture of an Earth landscape painted on it.

Chuck lies there and stares at it, and comes to the realization that he’s awake. Has been awake for a while, probably. Conscious thought boots up last and slowly after a total shutdown. Awareness of his body, of his identity, of his _existence,_ slowly settles back over him like a fog.

“—” says Chuck, and chokes on his own tongue. His mouth is so dry it hurts. _Initialize identity recall,_ he thinks instead, and closes his eyes again as his brain runs through the pre-made list, double-checking facts, validating memories— _where was I born, what did my parents look like, what’s my name, what do I look like, how did I meet—_

Mike.

Ship, crew, Mike. Kane Combine, factory, robots, bullets, self-destruct, and then Mike, dropping out of nowhere, lifting him up and running.

Chuck tenses his legs carefully—yeah. The right one is full of the burning, tingling feeling of a limb that used to be numbed. His side hurts too, an aching twinge whenever he breathes, threatening to grow at the slightest provocation to nauseating pain.

Okay. This is fine. He can’t sit up. It doesn’t seem like there’s anybody else here, which is weird—usually ROTH is in the medbay if somebody has taken damage. Sometimes Mike too, hovering like a worried parent.

When Chuck turns on his comm, carefully coordinating every minute mental adjustment, there’s one message waiting. But it’s not from ROTH, or from any of his crew members—sort of.

_?: u ok??_

…Huh. It’s time-stamped a day and a half ago, and he’s been out for…for…unknown.

His chronometric function is all jacked up, it doesn’t even do that after a total shut-down. Chuck frowns for a second, then shakes the thought away and raises a hand to pull up a keyboard. Messages now, troubleshooting later.

The problem is, his arm muscles feel about as stable as wet sand. Chuck struggles for a second, then gives up and drops his arm again. His head hurts almost as much as his arms do, but it’s a little easier to pull up the keyboard in his head, picking out one letter at a time.

_C: Why?_

There’s a minute or two of delay. Chuck shifts while he waits, moving first in tiny, almost imperceptible adjustments and then in larger movements, moving a finger and then a hand and then his arm. He gets so focused on working his way up his legs, he almost forgets he’s waiting for something, and the incoming message makes him jump and then groan in pain, pressing a hand to his side.

_?: just had a bad feeling_

Yeah, because with all the doom and gloom on Mike’s end, something _has_ to be up with his mystery hookup too, right? Chuck rolls his ankles very carefully, stretching his good leg with a groan. _You could tell him,_ murmurs his conscience—quietly now, as exhausted as the rest of him. _He could come up and take care of you, it would be so much better than lying here hurting…_

But…now? Right now, when Mike is so upset and freaked out he’s messaging some guy he doesn’t even know instead of checking in on Chuck in the medbay? God, Chuck will be lucky if Mike even wants to be _friends_ with him anymore, after he messed up the mission like that. After he almost got Mike killed going in after him…

_C: feeling pretty rough right now._

_C: I’ll be fine though._

_?: wasnt your fault_

That’s…a weird thing to say. Chuck frowns at his screen for a second, then, cautiously,

_C: who else’s would it be?_

_?: well_

_?: wasnt there a/body there to watch ur back??_

Okay. Well, they both know the other one is on a starship crew. Still, it’s not fair to blame the rest of the ship’s crew for one dumbass’s failure.

_C: I can watch my own back, dude._

_C: I can protect myself._

_?: ur crew should have helped protect u tho_

Oh.

Oh no. Oh _no_ , this is Mike all over though. No wonder he didn’t message Chuck about this, he thinks this stupid plan was his fault. Because obviously, if Chuck asks Mike to trust him and then betrays that trust by being a total dumbass, it’s Mike’s fault that everybody almost got blown to hell. Obviously it’s Mike’s fault and he should feel bad. And he should go…flagellate himself about it in the inbox of his mystery hookup, because _that_ makes sense. Come on, Mike.

_C: It’s 100% not their fault, that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard._

_C: I’m the one who almost got everybody killed._

_C: no wonder the rest of my crew doesn’t want anything to do with me, after that stupid gamble I don’t blame them for hating me_

_?: oh no_

_?: dude there ur crew ofc they dont hate u!!_

Well that’s obviously a lie, but it’s cute he’s so set on making his mystery dude feel better. Cute, but…stupid, and frustrating and _wrong._ Chuck grits his teeth, leg throbbing, feeling a headache start to pound behind his eyes.

_C: You can’t know that._

There’s a long silence after that. Chuck closes his eyes, waiting, feeling the seconds tick on and on in his head.

_?: guess i cant_

Chuck ends the call and lies back, staring up at the ancient picture of Earth. He didn’t put it there, and he can’t imagine Mike did either, so unless one of the other members of the crew snuck in here without telling them and did it on their own, this was here when they bought the ship. It’s of a couple of mountains with a lake in the middle and a sunrise pouring like down over the peak of one to gleam on the water. Looks like it would have been really nice when it was taken, but now it’s grayed and torn at the edges and one corner is peeling off.

Chuck stares at the picture for exactly two minutes, and then tries to take a deep breath and chokes at the sudden stab of pain from his side. There are anesthetic injectors on the counter across the room, but if his side hurts like this just from breathing, he doesn’t want to think about getting up and walking right this second. That’s not happening.

When he closes his eyes and uplinks into the ship network ROTH is there, but as soon as Chuck establishes a connection he feels ROTH go weirdly dark and muted. It’s freaky. Chuck feels his body frown and tries to reach out with a ping, and then jumps as the metaphorical door slams sharply right in his metaphorical face.

_ROTH? Dude, what’s up?_

_[unit status] <NO/DISAPPROVE/((slamming door))/DO NOT DISTURB>[ALERT] _

_Whoa, what?_

A few more milliseconds of rebellious radio silence, and then,

_[unit status: navigator::CHUCK] <organic/damage/disapprove/((“cancel preservation protocol”))/DAMAGE/DISAPPROVE> _

Chuck stares straight ahead for a second, mouth hanging open, then closes his eyes again. _I had it under control! What are you even mad about, I finished the mission!_

_[unit status: crew] <fear/angry/fear/affection/FEAR>_

_Well they don’t have to be scared, I’m_ fine.

Huffy silence. And then camera footage; Chuck’s own body, lying unconscious on the table, ROTH leaning over him, the crew gathered around looking battered and scorched and…scared.

Holy crap, that’s a lot of blood.

_[unit status: navigator::CHUCK] <stupid> _

_What?!_

_[suggestion: course of action] <silence>_

_No_ you _shut up!_

“…Chuck?”

Chuck jumps and terminates the conversation, automatically reaching for his weapons array. Mike is standing in the doorway, looking sheepish and worried and now alarmed. When he sees the slingshot starting to assemble itself he steps back abruptly, eyes wide, hands raised. He doesn’t… _look_ angry, really. Just worried and upset. Chuck swallows hard and drops his arm, slumping back on the table. “Oh,” he says. 

“Sorry,” Mike says. “I’ll leave you alone—”

Shit. “No.” Chuck pushes himself up a little bit, even though moving sends angry jolts of pain through his chest and stomach. “No! Mike, Mikey, no, don’t go.”

Mike hesitates in the door for another second—but maybe he can see the weird, desperate loneliness Chuck’s feeling in his eyes, because after a second he huffs out a sigh and steps in, closing the door carefully behind him.

“Lie down,” he says, and he sounds freaking exhausted, rough and clipped with it. “You shouldn’t be awake yet, dude.”

“Sorry,” Chuck says instinctively, and Mike twitches like that was the wrong response. When he comes to the side of the cot, his back is too straight and his expression is…really hard to read. Hands folded behind his back. It feels like being inspected, like when Security used to come and oversee his surgeries, and Chuck really can’t handle being half-naked and cold and in pain and _looked at_ like that. “No,” he says, with an effort. “I can’t— I’m not gonna just lie here, help—help me—”

Mike’s blank expression cracks into something a lot more complicated and painful. He pauses, starts forward, stops again, hands hovering—Chuck waits for a second, and then grits his teeth and forces all his strength into his right arm, jerking himself up onto his elbow with an effort that makes bright lights and blurry shadows swim in front of his eyes. He hears himself distantly, a high, tight whine of agony, and the distress and pain overload everything for a second, he can’t remember where or why or who or who or who or where he is, why it hurts—

A warm, strong arm bears up under him, supporting his shoulders. Chuck forces his eyes open, startled, and sees Mike’s face, lips thin and cheeks grayish-pale, eyes fixed on Chuck’s face with feverish intensity.

“You gotta lie down,” he says, but his voice is softer now, less clipped, more ragged. “Don’t be— Don’t, come on, just, get some more rest. You gotta heal.”

“Not here,” Chuck mumbles, and tries to swing his legs off the side. Mike’s other hand settles on his leg, warm even through the blankets, and he’s barely pushing but his arm might as well be made of lead. Chuck twitches, trying to move, and then slumps back on his arm, panting. Mike just watches, silent, and it’s the worst, it’s the fucking _worst._ Chuck turns his face, squeezes his eyes shut and bumps his forehead against Mike’s shoulder, knowing he can’t hide, trying anyway.

“I can’t,” he mumbles, barely audible, not even sure what he’s saying. Things drift in and out of focus; temporary cognitive impairment, he was damaged he was damaged they gave him another test and he failed, he was damaged. Somebody is holding onto him and he can’t remember who. “Not, not here, I can’t, like this, please, I’m sorry—”

The person, who, the, Mike— _Mike_ makes a sharp little noise and his grip on Chuck’s shoulders tightens, holding him closer. “Shh, buddy, shh,” he says, somewhere near Chuck’s ear, somewhere far away down a long, long tunnel. “You gotta stay here, you’re hurt.”

“I know I’m— _fucking hurt!_ ” Chuck snaps, startles himself with the volume of his voice, feels Mike jump and almost let go. For a second, the anger is overwhelming, as violently sharp as a switch flipping on—and then it dies away again, leaves him gasping. “Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry Mike I’m sorry, I—"

“Easy,” Mike says, and presses down a little harder on his good leg, squeezing his shoulders. “I’m getting you the nanos, and you’re going back to sleep. Okay?”

“I don’t need,” Chuck starts, and grabs Mike’s arm as he starts to lower Chuck’s shoulders back to the cot. “Hey! I don’t need nanotech, I just, a painkiller, that’s enough, ‘m fine—”

“You’re _not,_ ” says Mike tightly. “I’m getting the nanos.” He pulls, breaking out of Chuck’s grip easily. “…’ _Fine’—_ You’re not—you weren’t _fine,_ Chuck! You were—”

He swallows hard, takes a sharp breath through his nose and lowers Chuck back down onto the table, painstakingly careful. Turns away and starts digging through the cabinets, head low and shoulders tight.

“…I couldn’t wake you up,” he says, after a long, terrible moment, and for a second his hands just press down on the counter. He’s enunciating every word, too clear and cold, no room for error. “I thought you were dead. You were _dead_.”

All the air goes out of Chuck’s lungs. Mike is still for another long second, like he’s waiting for an answer—but Chuck can’t find any words, and Mike just shakes his head and goes back to digging, jerky and rough.

The video clip ROTH sent flashes back into Chuck’s mind’s eye, and this time he can’t shake it, can’t tear his thoughts away from the perfect, merciless detail of it. He can see the familiar body lying limp on the table, the papery shade of his own skin, streaked with blood and dirt. Texas is holding pressure the bullet wound in the body’s bleeding side, mouth moving like he’s yelling; Julie has pressure on the leg, blank-faced and grim, expressionless except for the tears on her cheeks. Dutch is snatching things off the counters and out of cabinets for ROTH, almost dropping things as his hands visibly shake.

When the clip ends, Mike is grabbing Chuck’s limp hand, reaching out to check for a pulse, and the look on his face is…unbearable. Chuck closes the video, but that face is burned behind his eyes—he’s never seen Mike terrified before, never seen him look _gutted_ like that.

“…Sorry,” says Chuck, but that feels utterly, pathetically inadequate. “ _Sorry.”_

Mike doesn’t answer. Just pulls out an injector, a few cartridges of pain medicine, and an unmarked bottle. When he turns back, he’s blank again. Security blank, commander blank.

 _“_ You told me to trust you,” Mike says, and his face is expressionless but his voice breaks, just a little, like the words hurt to say. “I trusted you because I thought—”

“I know, Mike, I’m _sorry—_ ”

 _“Because I thought_ you knew how this worked,” Mike goes on, louder. “We don’t do that.  You don’t— _do_ that. It’s not on the table.  It was _never_ an option!” He assembles the injector like he barely realizes he’s doing it, tugs the blankets off Chuck’s leg and lines up the barrel of the injector, never quite looking up. Never meeting Chuck’s eyes. “When you said you had it under control—”

“There’s always a chance I get injured, though!” Chuck protests weakly, and then groans at the sharp, familiar sting of the injector. The anesthetic goes in as a cold burn, then evens out into a wash of cool relief. The sick, dull throb in his side and leg both ease a little. “Just, _nnh_ , just because this time—”

“You.  Were.  _Dead!_ ” Mike snaps, hard and abrupt. There's a note of familiar command to the way he’s talking, a tone that Chuck winces from on instinct. Mike doesn’t usually use his Security voice, he knows the way it makes Chuck shut down inside—hearing it again, right now, like this, is just another awful reminder of how badly he managed to fuck up. “And you knew that could happen!  You knew it was way too dangerous!  That’s why you didn’t tell us until right before we were about to go in.  You _knew!_ ”

There are so many reasons Chuck did what he did, so many reasons it felt like the right thing to do, but somehow none of those matter in front of the hard, hurt look in Mike’s eyes. Chuck doesn’t answer—can’t answer. Just swallows hard and manages a strangled noise that doesn't quite manage to be words.

“Whatever this is,” Mike says, “Whatever is going on.  It's going to _stop_.  You’re smarter than this.”

It hurts almost more than the bullet wounds. Chuck opens his mouth to answer, and can't seem to find anything to say.  Mike holds his eyes for a long second, and then shakes his head and sighs. Finally— _finally_ —some of the impersonal disappointment fades out of his eyes.

"...Sorry," he says, and puts the injector down on the nearest counter with painstaking care, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I'm not tryin' to be a jerk, just...that wasn't okay, Chuck."

"Yes," says Chuck, and digs his nails into his palm, focusing on the sting, making his thoughts go as cold and straightforward as an override. _Yes sir, understood._ "I understand."

Mike opens the unmarked bottle, shakes out a capsule and holds it out. Chuck opens his mouth to protest, sees the look on Mike's face and chokes the words off, caught in the ugly, painful twist in his throat. When he swallows the pill it feels like he has to get it down past something hard and rough.

Mike is still watching him. Chuck doesn’t meet his eyes, just stares up at the ceiling, hurt and angry and ashamed. The cocktail of feelings is white-hot in his gut. Acid at the back of his throat, tears trying to burn in his eyes.

Mike makes an aborted noise, the beginning of a word, then cuts himself off and sighs.

“Sorry," he says again. "You're gonna feel better soon, okay?"

"Yes," says Chuck, small and blank and fake.

"...Yeah," says Mike, and there's at least one tiny, bitter sliver of Chuck that bubbles up with soft, poisonous satisfaction at the unhappy tone of his voice. "So—"

"Thank you," says Chuck. "I'm going to do some maintenance."

"Uh...okay." Mike steps back, jitters in place for a second as Chuck painfully hauls his half-numb leg back up onto the medbay bed and lays back. "You need, uh...?"

He needs a blanket, a shirt, some food, some water. But he doesn't want to ask for any of those things right now. Not like this, not from Mike. Chuck keeps his eyes fixed on the ceiling and shakes his head.

He hears Mike leave, seventy-three seconds later. He hesitates for long enough, he obviously wants to say something else. He doesn’t, though. There’s just the faint _whoosh_ of the door opening and closing, and then there’s no noise except the quiet, omnipresent hum of the ship.

Chuck mostly said he was going to do maintenance to give Mike a reason to leave, but his brain still feels all sorts of scrambled and…wrong. Maybe he could use it. Maybe he’ll finally figure out what’s wrong with him, ha. Or…more wrong than normal.

…Because something isn’t _right._ Something’s wrong with him, Mike was right and that’s why it hurts so much to hear him say it. Something’s wrong. It’s Chuck’s job to be the planner, the thinker, to be _safe._ That’s always been his job, _always_ , and it’s always been easy for him. And now it’s not.

Chuck lets his body relax, closes his eyes and retreats back into his brain. Digging, searching, feeling emotions rise and fade in strange, artificial waves as he stirs up neural connections. He ignores them, breathes through them, looks deeper. Searching for the slightest hint of something...

…Wrong.

—

Texas is standing outside the door when Chuck comes staggering out of the medbay seven minutes later, holding his side and breathing hard. Texas startles at the sight of him, jerking upright, and Chuck startles right back, swaying in place. He's just about to open his mouth and tell Texas what he discovered when Texas comes striding over and _picks him up_ .

The words turn into a yelp, arms and legs flailing all over the place as his feet leave the ground. "Dude! What are you _doing?!_ "

“You ain’t walkin’ anywhere,” says Texas. “No way, no how.” His arm is hooked under Chuck's shoulders; he twists his wrist and presses a palm flat to Chuck's left side, like he's feeling for a heartbeat, and his mouth twists. “…’Cause of all the…blood.” He looks faintly queasy for a second—shakes it off and takes off toward the main cabin in fast, short strides.

“I’m fine, I can walk—”

“Nuh-uh. Guys who die don’t walk places.”

“I went into temporary physical stasis, I didn’t _die_ —”

“Yeah well it _sure looked like it._ ”

Texas’s tone is leaden and harsh for a second. Chuck freezes, staring at him—Texas doesn’t look at him, mouth tight, eyes fixed firmly ahead.

“…Sorry,” says Chuck, small and wretched all over again as the shame squeezes his chest. “It was my fault, it was— _stupid,_ I-I’m sorry.”

“Whatever,” says Texas, and pats his side once, still not looking at him. Blinks once or twice, and then shakes his head, sniffs hard and shrugs. “Yeah, I mean—whatever. Texas knew there was nothin’ to worry about, it was all the other ladies all cryin’ and yellin’ and…and stuff.”

It's embarrassing getting carried anywhere, especially since Chuck's arms and legs are too long and his feet keep bumping into walls and doorframes. But it's weirdly comforting, for that. Texas's arms are very solid under his shoulders and knees, and Chuck's thigh still aches where he got hit.

It becomes abruptly embarrassing again when Texas turns sideways and edges through the door into the recreation area, and the whole crew is there. Chuck twist weakly, trying to get down, but Texas doesn't let him and a second later everybody is getting up and hurrying over.

"Is everything okay?" Julie says, "Are you okay?" and Dutch is reaching for the hem of his shirt to check his bandages and Mike is just hovering, his eyes and the line of his jaw tight with worry.

"I'm—put me _down—_ I'm fine!" Chuck swats Dutch's hand away, flustered and hot in the face with all the attention. "No dude—Texas is just being a dumbass, he wouldn't let me walk, I'm _fine._ "

"Good call, Texas," says Mike. “Chuck you shouldn’t be _up_ , we just— Tex, get him on the couch.”

"I can get _myself_ to the couch!" Chuck protests, but Texas is already striding over and lowering him onto a nest of pillows with meticulous care. Chuck opens his mouth to protest and then just goes "Hngh" as a sharp, warning twinge of pain shoots up and down his side. Texas twitches, brow furrowing, hovers for a second and then pats Chuck on the shoulder a couple of times and power-walks in the direction of the kitchen.

Mike settles down as soon as the spot next to Chuck is open, edging over as close as he can without touching. Chuck—isn’t quite ready for that, not quite, but Mike doesn’t try to actually touch him. Just hovers. Now that he’s said his piece, that strange, awful anger is gone and he’s an open book again. That’s…good. That’s good. They’ve been friends for so long, not being able to read how he’s feeling—

—

—Is way scarier than Mike would have thought. He’s seen Chuck kind of...lock up before, go all blank and numb, but this doesn’t look like that. It’s a dead, staring resignation, like a guy marching into a final, fatal assignment.  He stares around at them all for a second, huddling back in his seat like—like he used to when some of the jerks from Security used to corner him outside Mike's barrack and push him around, when he first moved to City 0.  Like he thinks they're going to gang up on him,  _hurt_ him.  Mike swallows hard, opens his mouth, not sure what he's going to say—

“I’m sorry,” Chuck says, and his tone is even but his voice is all rough, exhausted and in pain.

The other Burners glance at Mike, uncertain and unsettled, waiting for his reaction.  They must see the way he feels written on his face, because they when they look back at Chuck, all of them look almost as worried as Mike feels.

"Look, man," Dutch says, kind of quiet and soothing, like he's trying to calm down a wounded animal.  "It's not—"

"No," says Chuck convulsively, and pushes himself up onto his feet with a soft, terrible noise of pain.  The crew shifts uneasily, twitching to reach for him, but Chuck's blank expression twitches with desperate, angry hurt and he pulls away from their hands.  "No," he says again.  " _You_ look, you, you just,  _listen._ It's not an excuse, I don't have an excuse, but I know—what’s wrong with me.”

Mike's gut twists.  "Chuck," he starts, and Chuck winces and throws him a fast, harried look like he's scared Mike's going to yell at him (again).  Mike closes his mouth abruptly.  Texas and Dutch give him those nervous, darting looks again, trying to read what to do; Julie and ROTH don't.  Julie is staring at Chuck's face like she's trying to read something written in his eyes.  ROTH is rubbing his hands together nervously, making a very soft whining noise in his mutilated throat.  

"Chuck," Mike manages again, quieter this time, trying to be gentle, and Chuck swallows and wraps his arms around himself and doesn't look at any of them.  "There's nothing  _wrong_ with you, buddy.  Look, if this is— Just, _look,_ when I said…"

"No," Chuck says, a little more firmly, and raises his eyes from the floor. They're red-rimmed, heavily underscored with bruised shadows. He looks awful. "I know why I—why I've been so stupid." He waves a hand at his bandages. "Pulling all this—stupid _bullshit,_ acting like—"

"Hey," says Dutch quietly. Chuck glances up at him, swallows, cuts off whatever he was going to say.

"—It's a virus," he finishes abruptly, and taps a finger against his temple a couple of times. His eyes flash with every tap. "I thought I cleaned out all the shit Kane loaded in there, that first night? Our anniversary night? Well I didn't. I cleared out the signal beacon part, but there was more. I think it was...it was meant for ROTH."

ROTH blinks, brows furrowing. Taps himself on the chest questioningly. Chuck glances at him, irises flickering as he gets whatever message ROTH is sending, then nods. "Yeah. A bunch of irrational— Junk signals. Most people would send the files they stole back to the ship, and then whatever was in there would've gone straight for you. I think it was meant to make you aggressive, y'know? Mess up your crew-preservation protocols, make you all..." he grimaces. "...Self-destructive. And just, y'know, destructive. To everything."

"Guess Kane's gettin' tired of trying to do the dirty work himself," Dutch mutters bitterly. "That's low, trying to get ROTH to do it for him.”

ROTH makes an indignant warbling noise and punches one amorphous hand into his other palm. Texas growls in agreement and whacks him on the back solidly. "Yeah, like ROTH'd ever!"

"Good thing I'm too paranoid to stream straight to the database," Chuck says, small and wet-sounding, and hunches in on himself, rubbing his hands up and down his arms. Up and down. "He didn't think his program would have to tangle with an anxiety disorder. Ha."

He looks really small and pale and drained, for a second. Mike's heart crumples like a wrung-out rag, twisting in his chest. Thinking back to all the times he noticed something was going on, noticed the way Chuck was acting and didn’t say anything. "I should've noticed something was up," he says, into the quiet, awful lull. "I'm sorry, dude."

"Oh, bullshit," Chuck mutters, but it's not nasty and snapping like it would have been before. He just sounds tired. One of his hands settles over his bandaged side, rubbing back and forth gently. "Hh. I'm... I'm the one who almost blew us all up."

"You're the one who blew up a whole bot factory!" Texas says, and then coughs as Julie gives him a narrow-eyed look. "I mean, not cool, we're not cool with you gettin' blown up or shot or whatever, but hey, if you were _gonna_ die— Ow!"

Chuck makes a wet little noise that's only sort of like a laugh, and Mike can't help himself anymore. He pushes himself up and hurries across the room, grabbing his best friend's shoulders, coaxing him back in the direction of the couch. Chuck resists for a second, and then gives in and lets himself be pulled, staggering, breathing shallow and fast with pain.

"It just, it made me," Chuck is mumbling, aimless and exhausted, and catches his breath, legs buckling as Mike pulls him back down onto the couch. "Stupid and, and reckless, I could've...all of you..."

"...But you've pulled it, now?" Julie asks, not quite wary. Chuck nods weakly, just once, and some of the tension in her shoulders relaxes. "Good."

ROTH beeps, eye blinking. Chuck twitches and pries his swollen eyes back open, glancing back in ROTH's direction. "Yeah," he says, in response to whatever ROTH messaged him. "Sure. Yeah, just. Later."

ROTH nods and crosses the room to cup Chuck's face in his hands and run a hand over his sweaty hair. Chuck holds his gaze for a second, and both of their eyes flicker and flash—then Chuck nods again and closes his eyes.

"...'M sorry I got shot," he says, small and rough and hopeless, like he's already decided they won't forgive him. "And—how dumb I was, about it. Sorry."

"Aw, geez," says Mike, kind of helplessly, and wraps an arm around Chuck's shoulders, pulling him in close and bumping his forehead against Chuck's temple. Chuck tenses for just a second, eyes flickering toward Mike, and then he gives in and lets himself be pulled. He doesn't relax into the hug, though, and when Mike lets go he sways back upright, holding himself in tight so he doesn't touch anybody.

"I forgive you," says Julie. "But you _need_ to go lie down now."

Chuck nods. He looks miserable, huddled in on himself, arms wrapped around him, and Mike wants to fix it but he's part of the problem. He wants to apologize, but he knows for a stone-cold fact that if he tries to talk about their fight in front of everybody Chuck is going to get even more uncomfortable, and the thought of him trying to struggle back onto his feet and get away makes Mike's chest twist with guilt.

He rests a hand carefully on Chuck's shoulder instead, squeezing, and hopes that when Chuck's head twitches toward him the slump of his shoulders is relief, not resignation.

"Come on, skinny," says Texas, almost gently, and reaches down to grab Chuck's shoulders, scooping him up like somebody carrying a whiny puppy. Chuck makes an unhappy noise, but he doesn't try to squirm away. "Hey ROTH, you wanna get this dude some pain meds?"

ROTH squeaks and stands up, hurrying in Texas's wake as he strides toward the door.  Dutch stands up slowly, staring after them--drags a hand down his face.  Swallows hard, takes a deep breath, and then makes an unreadable noise and hurries out the other door, back toward the engine block in fast, jerky steps.  Mike glances after him, pushes himself halfway up to follow Chuck and ROTH and Texas, and then...hesitates.

Julie is watching him when he sits slowly back down, resting his elbows on his knees and staring blankly at the empty doorway.  Mike's eyes catch briefly on her right arm; she's been taking her meds, she's got it bandaged up and in a sling, and he believes her when she says it's not a big deal, but...  God, Mike messed up so bad.  He messed up so many things so  _bad._

"...Okay," she says finally, after a long second of silence. "What did you do?"

Mike briefly considers feigning ignorance—then he meets Julie's eyes and gives in, crumpling like a falling house of cards.

Julie doesn't have anything to say as Mike gives her the summarized run-down of the things that were said in the medbay. She raises her eyebrows once or twice, which is bad enough. Nods a couple of times. Goes "Uh-huh" and "yeah?"

"...And he said he had to do 'maintenance' and just..." Mike slumps back against the couch. "Shut me out."

Julie makes an ambivalent noise that might be sympathy or might be judgment. Mike can't really tell, and at this point it's not like he can change what happened. It still stings, though.

"Well," she says finally. "I'm not gonna say you were wrong."

Mike lets out a long, slow breath he didn't know he was holding. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," says Julie. "What he did was crazy, and reckless and dumb. _But..._ " she holds up a hand as Mike opens his mouth. "...But you drove the shuttle into a hurricane a few months ago, and you didn't even have a reason."

Mike blinks. "What does that have to do with—"

"I'm not done," says Julie, with the quiet authority of a commanding officer. Mike's mouth snaps abruptly shut. "You were right, and if yelling at him ended up with him clearing out that virus then—good, that needed to happen. But—"

"I didn't _yell_ at him!" Mike protests, injured. "Jules, come on—"

"No," Julie says, hard and clean and clear, and a weird, tight jolt shoots up Mike's spine and pulls it straight like a wire going taut. "But talking like this didn't _help._ Did it?" And then sharper, when Mike just gapes at her, "— _Did it?"_

 _"_ Nosir!" Mike says, poleaxed. Julie holds his eyes for a long second, and then she finally looks away again, face softening. Mike breathes out, and realizes with a jolt that his heart is pounding in his throat. It's been a long time since he got in trouble with an officer, but even knowing Julie was messing with him, there's a miserable knot in his stomach. "I didn't yell at him, I was just— He was—  I was so  _scared,_ Jules, I made the call and he—"

"I _know,_ Mike!" Julie says, tight and frustrated. "I know! You think I wasn't scared too? But he _knows_ what he did was stupid. He didn't need to hear it from you, or like that, or where you guys were."

"Where we...were?"

"Yeah," says Julie. "You know he doesn't like the medbay."

"I—he doesn't?"

"...No," says Julie slowly, and cocks her head on one side, brow furrowing. "Because it reminds him of his surgeries? He told me like a month ago, it triggers some stuff for him. He just tries to get in and out as fast as he can, and he doesn't like lying on the table..." She stops, watching Mike's face. "...But you didn't know about any of that," she finishes slowly. "Okay. Well...then that part's not your fault. That's good."

"Why did he tell you that?" Mike's seen Chuck in the medbay hundreds of times, he doesn't _look_ any different in there than normal. Well—tonight he did, he looked...scared, and upset, and hurt and angry, and kept trying to push himself up off the table or away from Mike, like he wanted to hide. But— Mike didn't _know,_ he wasn't doing it on purpose. "He never—why didn't he tell me?"

"Look," says Julie, raising her good hand. "I'm not a therapist or anything, Mike. I don't know what's going on with him, except it's really important for him that you think he's fine, and good at his job, and..." she grimaces. "... _a functional unit._ He only told me because we were both kind of drunk. All I'm saying is, he already apologized and it sounds like you probably should, too. "

The weird, defensive misery Mike's feeling must show on his face, because Julie picks her way over and kneels down on the couch cushions next to him, threading her real arm carefully over his shoulder. Mike almost pulls away for a second, but it feels really nice to know she's not actually mad at him. Just...disappointed. He leans into her grip, and Julie squeezes him for a long moment and then pulls away again.

"He'll feel better after he gets some sleep," she says. "We _all_ will."

Mike's not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he doesn't need to be to hear what she's saying. He nods, and Julie gives him an awkward little smile and hurries out of the room.

Julie's not a big fan of talking about feelings at the best of times, let alone after all of...that. If Mike never has to see her look like that again—pale and bloody and wide-eyed with terror—it'll be too soon. He never wants to see his crew look like that again. He never wants to feel like that again, he never wants to wants to grab his best friend's hand and feel it so limp and cold and—

Mike swallows convulsively and pushes himself up decisively, shaking that memory off. It's...hard to push that one down. Hard not to think about it, and hard not to let it bring back more thoughts he doesn't want to have right now. Like the memory of the first time he saw Chuck lying on an operating table, bloodless and limp, glassy-eyed. It's not—it shouldn't _happen_ , not to the people Mike cares about, the people he loves. He can't keep letting them get hurt like this. One of these days, it's gonna kill him.

Sore and tired, hurting inside and out, Mike goes to find some peace and quiet.

—

Texas tries to take Chuck back to the medbay first, but Chuck grabs the doorframe as they go past and holds on so tight the metal creaks. Whatever face he's making, even Texas must be able to interpret pretty clearly, because he stops there and lets ROTH go and get the injector. They give him another pain shot, and then Texas goes stomping back down to the hallway full of bedrooms and deposits Chuck carefully into his bed.

 _[unit status: navigator::CHUCK] <valued/damaged/under repair>, _ ROTH says, and lays a soft hand over Chuck's bandages, patting so gently he barely feels it. _[suggestion: course of action::CHUCK] <rest/recharge>_

"Get some super kick-ass sleep, little guy," Texas tells him, and drops a blanket unceremoniously on top of him. "You were cool today. It sucked, but, like, it was cool."

Chuck makes a strangled noise that only sort of sounds like acknowledgement, even to his own ears. Texas watches him for another minute, then goes "Uh-huh" to himself and marches resolutely out the door, trailing ROTH behind him.

Chuck can still feel the virus, sparking and skittering around in his programming. It's aggressive, weedy, hard to dig out, and it's not as smart as an AI but it's smart enough it's giving his anti-virus software a run for its money. Deluxe R&D probably programmed this, which does not make Chuck feel better about the situation at all. He lies still on the bed, stares up at the ceiling and tries to save processing power. The faster this thing is out of his system, the better.

He's been lying there, half shut down, half asleep, for an hour and a half when he gets a message.

_?: hey_

Mike.

Chuck blinks, pulling up the screen in front of him. The glow hurts his eyes for a second, and that's definitely why they sting and water. Mike's messaging him, like a stupid—like some kind of—is he seriously thinking about hooking up with his _fake boyfriend_ right now? Asshole.

Some part of him knows Mike too well to think that, rejects the idea—Mike's a nice guy, he's definitely upset, he's just looking for somebody to hold onto—but fuck that, Chuck's pissed. Pissed at everything, mostly himself, but also definitely at Mike.

_C: what_

Silence. Chuck chews on his lip, feels the remnants of the virus add a nasty burst of strength to the anger he was already feeling. What's _with_ Mike anyway? Chuck gets shot, Mike's off messaging his mystery guy. Chuck is upset, Mike messages his mystery guy. It doesn't make any _sense—_

_?: i uh_

?: _how r u doing??_

It doesn't make any sense.

It doesn't...

_?: ur hurt, rite?_

Mike knows.

Chuck stares up at the ceiling, and feels his heart start to hammer against the inside of his ribs. His pulse is sudden rising up like a wave to pound in his head as pieces start to fit together so fast it leaves him spinning. If Mike didn’t know, there’s no reason for him to have messaged Chuck on his untraceable line. No reason for him to have said what he did—about crew having your back, about _any_ of it.  No reason for him to go talk to some other guy when he knows his best friend is hurt, because Chuck may have fucked everything up but he knows that Mike still cares about him, the stupid son of a bitch.

It would be better if he didn't, it wouldn't hurt as much to disappoint him. But Mike would never ignore Chuck at a time like this, no matter how mad he was.  He wouldn't leave Chuck alone in the cold in the medbay on the table, wouldn't leave him even if there was a whole tower, a whole army, between him and Chuck.  Because he still _cares._ He's trying to be sneaky about it because he thinks Chuck doesn't want to talk to him.  And—and Chuck _fucking doesn't,_  he doesn't want to talk to Mike right now, but the least Mike could do is message in person so Chuck can tell him so to his face.  Chuck's hurt, stupidly hurt, for stupid reasons, it's his own damn fault, and he doesn't want to hide behind anonymous masks.  He wants to talk.  He wants his best friend back.

Realizing that feels like a punch in the gut, and it curls him up the same way a punch would, buckling him around the hurt.  He wants Mike back, he misses him so  _fucking much,_ and he's furious and hurt and wants Mike anyway.  Mike wants to talk to him, and he wants to talk to Mike, and Mike knows they've been meeting up and probably has ever since Chuck got his confirmation picture.  Chuck was too convinced that he was the smart one, that he had it all under control, that he was watching every angle, and Mike just... _figured it out._

And somehow the worst part, on top of all the other worst parts, is the fact that they both know.  They've both known for  _days,_ and that should mean that they can just talk about it, but they can't.  They should be able to just talk and fix everything, be best friends again, be more than best friends, but the fact that they can have sex with no strings attached in a mind-wipe hook-up terminal has no correlation to how they work together out here, apparently. Because out here they're just getting worse, years of friendship cracking and falling apart through Chuck's hands and he doesn't know how to  _fix_ it.  

_?: buddy?_

Chuck pulls his pillow in against his chest and presses his face into it, squeezing his eyes shut so tight there are little white lights bursting behind his eyelids. He can still see the chat in his head, behind his eyes. The blinking cursor, waiting for him.

_?: u ok?_

_I don't want to talk to you, Mike,_ Chuck types. Groans and digs his nails into his pillow, squeezing it hard enough his arms shake. Deletes it. _Stop messaging me, asshole._ Deletes it. _I'm sorry._

_?: sorry for what?_

He didn't know he sent that last message, doesn't know if he meant to or not. He doesn't care. He's not picking out messages letter by letter now, he's throwing words at the screen, at Mike, eyes burning, side burning, _burning._ He should get up and take something for pain but it doesn't _matter,_ he doesn't care. He deserves it, he _earned_ this.

_C: i'm sorry_

_C: i'm sorry_

_?: no dude come on ur ok!_

_C: i'm sorry_

_?: its ok!!_

_C: its NOT OKAY !_

_?: woa_

_?: hey talk t me_

_C: about what._

_?: iwant t see u_

_C: NO_

_C: im sorry_

_C: no you cant not right now_

_?: hey listen_

_C: i fuckign HATE yo ustop TALKING_

_C: It wasnt supposedto go like this!_

_C: why is everything so hard and FCKING STUPI D_

_C: LEAVE ME ALONE_

Mike sends more messages after that, but Chuck doesn't read any of them. Mike doesn't try to come into the room, which is good because if he did Chuck would shoot him. Eventually, Chuck stops waiting for the next message to ping him, and he's alone, and it's quiet, and he finally sleeps.

He wakes up three hours later, in pitch darkness, from a dream he can only barely remember. His chest hurts, his heart is thundering in his ears, his skin feels hot and cold with shivers. As he watches, his hand lowers from the air in front of him, the glow dying away slowly from his surgical scars.

Mike's messages are still sitting in his inbox. Chuck relaxes back and tries to let himself drift away again, but he can't seem to ignore the quiet, constant presence of the alerts, sitting patiently in the back of his head. Every time he's reminded they're there, memory flashes; dreams about Mike standing over him, watching coldly as they strap his arms down. _He's defective, he went running out on his own and got damaged. That's_ not okay _, Chuck—_

Chuck sits up in bed, takes a sharp gasp as the pain from his side hits—breathes through it. When he opens his comm, the notification blinks benignly at him from the corner of the screen.

Chuck glowers at it for a second, and then takes a deep breath and opens the line.

_?: dude please_

_?: just_

_?: please come back_

_?: im sorry, i didn mean to make you_

Mike never finished the message. His untraceable line is quiet and dead, the network of the ship glimmering neatly in place. All bunks closed and locked. All crew members in bed and accounted for.

All except one. One access point open, on the bridge. If Chuck closes his eyes and sinks into the network deep enough, he can almost feel Mike's fingers tracing patterns on the screen. He's playing some kind of racing sim, but ever couple of seconds there's a little flicker and a restart in the network as he loses. He doesn't stop, though. Just keeps on playing, over and over again, fingers jabbing at the screen so hard they glitch through it. Crashing the ship he's racing over and over and over again.

The last of the virus is almost completely stamped out, now. Chuck can barely feel it, even now that he knows where to look; a few scraps of its code, trying desperately to copy themselves anywhere they can. In its wake, everything feels kind of strangely muted, pitiful and ragged compared to the burning, driving force of the artifical anger. The anger is still there, of course, but now that it's back in proportion, Chuck realizes abruptly how much of what he was feeling was hurt and shame and guilt.

Mike crashes again. Again, not bothering to steer, just slamming the ship into whatever digital obstacle the game has put in front of him. Again. Again.

Chuck is opening his line again before he can really think about it. When he starts typing, it's not a formless mess of thoughts and feelings and the first words to come to mind; it's one letter at a time, shaking hands on an actual keyboard.

_C: I miss you._

He feels Mike's hands falter on the screen a second later. Loses his focus in the rush of data as Mike closes his screen and scrambles to pull up new ones, finally landing on his comms.

_?: yr back!!!_

_?: im sorry dude im seriosly sorry_

He's still typing, but Chuck doesn't want to read what he's going to say. Mike shouldn't have to apologize for this. Neither of them should, or both of them should, or maybe that's the same thing, and this is—stupid, and the worst, and both of their own damn faults.

_C: Don't_

_C: you don't have to do that_

_?: i am tho m sorry_

_C: you still want to see me?_

Mike pulls his hands away from the keyboard. Chuck waits, biting his lip—tastes blood, stinging, crushing pain, but only distantly. Waiting.

_?: of coursei do_

_?: u no i do_

_C: can you go now?_

Another moment of hesitation.

_?: ye_

_?: is that ok fr u??_

He knows. He knows, and he knows Chuck's injured, and he wants to see him again so badly, any way he can, he's not going to stop Chuck from doing this with bullet holes in his side. From Mike, that's...a lot. He's not careful about most things, but as soon as one of his friends is injured he's usually all over them, hovering and worrying and trying to keep them in bed. He's not going to try to stop Chuck from going.

...But he's not going to tell Chuck he knows, either.

_C: I'll be there._

_C: fifteen minutes_

_?: 15 min_

_?: thanks_

_C: I'm sorry_

_?: ur ok_

_?: its ok_

_?: ill be there in 10_

—

.

**Session 9**

.

—

Chuck wakes up to soft warmth, outside and inside. Something warm and bittersweet and good, a wistful kind of joy in his chest. For a second he’s so happy—so genuinely _happy_ —he can barely breathe. He stares at the ceiling, smiling a huge, stupid grin, heart pounding—

Then he moves, and it hurts, and everything comes flooding back. Getting shot, and this stupid, desperate trip. Lying down in the transfer pod hating himself. And then nothing.

It makes him feel worse, somehow, that he woke up feeling like that. The session obviously went well, and the Chuck inside the session had no idea what kind of stupid fucked-up bullshit the real Chuck was getting himself into on the outside. There's always a chance, however faint, that this time Chuck really did get somebody else; that Mike changed his mind, didn't come, is still back at the ship and furious at Chuck. But that doesn't seem likely, somehow.

"...Did I ask you to share anything this time?" he says.

" _No_ ," says the computer. Chuck can't tell if he's imagining it or not, how brief and blank its voice sounds. God, even the computer is mad at him for this stupid stunt.

"I shouldn't be here."

The computer doesn't answer that. Chuck sits up with an effort, buries his face in his hands and groans.

"Why am I such a fuck-up?" he asks the room, quiet and miserable.

" _Unable to determine,_ " says the computer. " _You have five minutes to exit the terminal."_


	9. 8 - Resolved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chuck looks at all the evidence in front of him, and makes the only reasonable decision. Mike does the same thing. 
> 
> Unfortunately, they have very different ideas of what constitutes "reasonable".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE:  
> You can read in whatever order you'd like, but the author-recommended order is to finish this chapter, then go back to chapter 1 and reread, reading the sessions as they happen.  
> They add a whole other dimension to the fic, and I'm very proud! ;D

Dinner that night is terrible. Chuck has to come out and eat—can't just lie in his room, not when the rest of the crew are so transparently worried about him—and he can't help but have an appetite, in the aftermath of the healing and the nanos and the...sex...but it's still awful, awkward and tense. He keeps looking up from his plate and catching Mike looking away from him, face all tight and blank and impossible to read. Every time, it feels a little bit worse.

There's a new bruise on Chuck's collarbone, the level Mike's mouth would be if Chuck was holding him. Mike's lower lip looks swollen, like somebody bit it a little too hard.

Chuck stops looking up, after he notices that. He can still feel Mike watching him. He keeps his head down, doesn't make eye contact, eats as fast as he can.

He's half-expecting Mike to try to catch him after dinner, but when the crew all starts to filter out it's actually Texas who comes jogging up after him and grabs his arm. He glances around the dining room, then pulls Chuck away from the table, off toward the attached kitchen, and gives him a very intense look.

"Uh," Chuck starts.

"Hey," says Texas, and squeezes his wrist. "Hey so, are you gonna be okay tonight or what?"

"Why would I be...not okay?" says Chuck, and Texas kind of shuffles his feet and shrugs his shoulders and looks uncomfortable.

"Dunno," he says. "You're not gonna do anything stupid, though, like, you're not gonna— You were, like, okay with gettin' shot and, whatever—"

Oh. Oh, fuck. "I'm not gonna hurt myself," Chuck says, as clearly as he can manage, and Texas looks taken aback and then transparently, awfully relieved. "I don't— _want_ to die, dude, seriously."

"Yeah," says Texas. "Yeah, 'kay, cool. Uh, cool. For sure?"

"For sure," says Chuck.

"Only, 'cause sometimes people say they're okay and then they do stuff like that anyway."

"Well—" _how do you know that?_ Chuck wants to ask. Doesn't. "Well I'm not going to. I swear, okay?"

"Cool," says Texas. "Okay, so, go sleep, I guess."

"I will," says Chuck, baffled and weirdly touched, and Texas pats him roughly on the back a couple of times, looking slightly embarrassed and considerably mollified, and then hurries off toward the door out of the dining room. "Good, uh...goodnight?"

Well, that was…weird. Chuck watches the others go, thoughtful and bemused. He was going to go straight to bed, but he really doesn't want to follow too close on the heels of the rest of the crew. Especially Texas, after...that.

Texas makes a big deal out of being okay no matter what, too tough to touch. Too badass to let anybody hurt his friends, his crew. It makes Chuck feel way worse, somehow, to wonder who Texas knows who's hurt themselves.

He sighs, rakes a hand through his hair and turns back to the table, intending to help ROTH clear the dishes—and then falters, pulling up short. "Uh!" he says, and falters, opening and shutting his mouth, not sure what to say. "Uh, Dutch! I, uh."

Dutch is still in his seat at the other end of the table, watching him—as soon as Chuck meets his eyes, Dutch looks away and rubs two knuckles against his temple slowly.

"Hey," says Chuck—stops, swallows, trying to keep his voice steady. "...You okay?"

Dutch doesn't answer for a long second. When he does, his voice is quiet and flat. "No," he says. "No, I'm— Look. We can't all keep walkin' on eggshells around you guys, waiting for you to figure out whatever's goin' on. Okay? You're the first mate, he's the captain, we're… I mean we're all friends, but…"

He stops, sighs and looks away again.

"You guys gotta fix somethin'," he says finally. "Don't care what it is, just, I'm tryin' to be cool but I'm at the end of my chain here, man. We can't fall apart like this."

He looks…tired. Like, really tired, and stressed, and it occurs to Chuck suddenly that he barely said a word, in the aftermath of the awful mission and the virus thing. Just sat there, looking tense and unhappy. Like he looks now.

"…I'm sorry I freaked you guys out," says Chuck again, and Dutch's eyes widen for a second and then flick away. "It wasn't cool of me, I… Thanks for not piling on. I know—it would've been easy, and, and you deserved it."

"You didn't need that," Dutch says, but there's a hoarse edge to his voice.

"You could've though," Chuck insists. "I deserved it, and…you could've yelled at me for it, but you didn't, and it was…probably hard." It feels presumptuous to say, but he still has the recording in his head, of the way Dutch's hands shook as he tried to help save Chuck's life. His face had been strange and gray, eyes wide and terrified.

Dutch swallows hard, breathes out through his nose. "Yeah," he says. "Well…yeah. Okay. Cool. You're…y'know, you're welcome."

"I'll talk to Mike," says Chuck. "I will. I just—don't know what to say, yet."

"You're gonna be waiting a long time if you're waiting for that," Dutch says dryly. "Man, how long have you guys been friends? You gotta be pretty good at talkin' stuff out by now, right?"

Chuck laughs a little, but not really because it's funny. "...We don't...talk, a lot," he says, and rakes back his hair with a hand, shaking his head. "We don't need to talk. About most stuff."

"Uh-huh." Dutch frowns, head tilted a little on one side, watching Chuck with sharp dark eyes. "Maybe that's your problem. Everybody's gotta talk about stuff. Doesn't matter how long you know somebody, you're always gonna have to talk. Not talking doesn't make you better friends, just...makes you not get each other."

Chuck doesn't really know what to say to that. He just kind of stares dumbly instead, as Dutch pushes himself up and gathers the plates from around the table.

"I know you guys know each other from when you're kids," says Dutch eventually, quietly. "But maybe you should start talkin' again."

He claps Chuck on the shoulder as he goes past, gives him a sympathetic smile and takes the dishes off toward the kitchen.

...Well now Chuck doesn't want to stay here either. He stares after Dutch for a minute, then after the other Burners, and then groans and heads toward the bridge. He's got...a lot of thinking to do.

He's still thinking four hours later. The clock says 0121—military time, because Mike likes it that way. Chuck was due for more pain medicine forty-five minutes ago, and it feels like it—a heavy, throbbing ache in the muscle of his thigh, and a tight burn in the healing skin. The nanos have knitted the worst of the damage together, but KaneCom laces some awful, toxic shit into their bots' projectiles, and the wound is fighting the nanos every inch of the way. Chuck runs his fingers back and forth over the bandages, wincing absently at every slow swell of pain, and thinks.

What it comes down to, basically, is a costs and benefits analysis. It's a familiar process; everybody in R&D learns how to balance the pros and cons of everything they do. Bring a project to the combine, and risk getting demoted and relocated if it fails, or toil along in nameless obscurity for the rest of your life? Cost and benefit analysis. Stay up for four days straight popping stim tabs instead of sleeping, or try to get some sleep and trust it'll kickstart your brain? Cost and benefit analysis.

...Sign up for your own incredibly experimental cyborg conversion procedures, or let KaneCom select some hapless son of a bitch to test it on, whether he likes it or not? Cost and benefit analysis. Cost and fucking benefit.

The benefits of talking to Mike, trying to make it work, are...tenuous. Mostly rooted in possible best outcomes. The costs are significant. Wounded pride, risk for romantic incompatibility, a wedge in their friendship if it doesn't work out. Worst-case scenario, the end of Chuck's friendship with Mike. The end of the burners. Kane steamrollers over the rest of the known universe.

Chuck knows his own brain well enough to know that's an extreme, and the odds of things reaching that point are really low. But the first few steps are way less of a stretch, and they're not wild, anxiety-driven guesses. Chuck has _data,_ cold hard facts. These past few days, even if they hadn't talked about it, both of them knew who they were seeing. They both went back, but neither of them made a move to talk about it, not even Mike "It'll All Work Out" Chilton. And with both of them knowing, their fight got even worse than it was before.

And anyway—and _anyway,_ even if they got together, there's the whole...wire...thing. If Mike is touchy and hurt and defensive over it when they're friends, how the hell would he take it if they were together? Would he try to ignore the way Chuck is, the things that have changed about him, or would he actually listen for once? Would he understand the way sometimes Chuck can't let anybody touch him, can't look anybody in the eyes, can't come out of his room?

Chuck loves the guy—god, loves him so much, but Dutch is right, they haven't _talked._ They haven't talked in years, not about anything real. Mike has known Chuck longer than anybody else in the universe, knows secrets about him nobody else does, but he doesn't seem to get the one big things that's _not_ a secret, which is that Chuck's...different, now. He's not the kid Mike knew, he's a twitchy, neurotic, anxiety-ridden failed combat unit.

Chuck knows Mike, though. Knows Mike hates sitting still, likes spicy food and making friends, loved Deluxe so fiercely the wound of its betrayal still hasn't healed. Knows he can't read default fonts, likes to sleep with the room freezing cold, and knows, for a stone-cold fact, that Mike's version of coping with things is to stubbornly ignore them until he absolutely can't anymore. And Chuck also knows, just as acutely, that one of the things Mike is refusing to acknowledge is a huge chunk of Chuck's _existence_. If they're friends, that's...well, not _fine,_ but Chuck can try to ignore it. But if Mike wants to be with him, it's painfully obvious that the one he wants is some half-remembered version of his childhood best friend, unaltered and young, organic and _normal._ And if that's the way it is, then he doesn't want Chuck, not really. He just misses some made-up version in his head.

The longer Chuck thinks about it, the more right that sounds. They _work_ in the session; at first because they were strangers, no investment except in each other's bodies, and then because they recognized each other but didn't remember. Mike wouldn't have to ignore and repress how he felt about Chuck's surgeries if he didn't remember them. Chuck wouldn't have the sharp edges to his brain, the memories that catch and tear and burn at him sometimes, the trauma that triggers his combat protocols at the slightest sign of a threat. They could just be themselves, but better. The kids who used to live together, childhood sweethearts, simple and...in love.

But that's not who they are out here.

It's three AM. He doesn't remember it happening, but it became that way, at some point. Chuck blinks at nothing in the dark, and idly pulls up his chronometric log; he did three total reboots at some point, virus purged and system scanned. His leg is pounding, his side stings and subsides as he breathes. He's made his decision. Doesn't remember it happening, but it became that way, at some point.

He's got to break it off. It hurts to think about, almost unbearably, but he can't just _pretend_ anymore. He can't keep stringing himself along on the faint hope that something might come from secretive, stolen moments neither of them can remember. He can still be Mike's friend, if he does this right, but they need to talk face to face and they need to make it clear; they both know, and it's not working, and it's over.

He's crying, distant pain knotting up his chest, face wet. Doesn't remember it happening, but it became that way, at some point. _The unit is in pain._

It feels better, though. Some part of him always knew he was going to have to give this up, from the first time he got a message from his mystery guy. He knew this wasn't going to be permanent. The fact that the guy turned out to be Mike only made the inevitable moreso, really.

At some point, he cries himself out. At some point he falls asleep, sitting up in the chair; he dreams, and knows he's dreaming. Watches himself float in a vast, bottomless ocean of motionless liquid metal, watches it carve and cut and climb into him, more and more, pouring inside him. His body spasms as he watches it, distressed, in pain, but Chuck doesn't have to feel it. Just watches.

Something is pinging his comm system. Chuck watches the ocean of metal pour into his twitching, dull-eyed body for another minute and forty-five seconds, and then stops his brain's sleep pattern with a faint, intangible _click_ and opens his eyes. A comm screen pops up almost without a conscious thought, and Chuck isn't surprised, somehow, to see it's his untraceable line.

?: _meet me_

That's all. Chuck stares at the message for a minute, almost types _Mike we have to stop doing this—_ can't make his hands do it. Mike wants to meet him again? Why now?

_C: where?_

There's a second where he thinks Mike's not going to answer. Then,

_?: same as alwas_

_?: we need t talk_

God, he even types the same.

_C: you can talk to me here._

_?: face 2 face_

Okay. Fuck. Okay.

_C: okay_

He doesn't ask how they're going to meet each other face to face in a raza terminal. They'll be in the same building, after all. There's no point pretending at this point. Chuck pushes himself up, scrubs at his face with the sleeve of his coat, and starts silently toward the cargo bay door.

—

They've landed in one of the smaller towns around the city, and it's four-fifty AM now; the streets are quiet and misty, dark. Chuck walks silently, eyes on a map on one of his screens. He feels like he should be planning what he's going to say, getting ready for when he sees Mike, but he can't seem to bother. His whole side hurts, and his head hurts, and he's so goddamn tired. It's time to be done. It's time to give up now, _finally_. It's time to stop pushing and hurting and trying to make things happen that weren't meant to happen. And if he's lucky, it's time to get his best friend back.

The raza terminal is a small building with multiple entrances, pale lights flickering over the doors. Chuck picks one at random, edges inside, goes through the automated check-in with blank efficiency.

" _Chuck_ ," says the computer, when he walks in. " _How unexpected._ "

"Yeah," says Chuck distantly, and takes his coat off. Folds it neatly, slides it into the locker.

" _You still appear physically and emotionally damaged._ "

"Yeah," says Chuck, and tugs at his shirt. Lets go again. "...I'm not gonna do the mind-wipe."

There's a moment of silence, and then the computer says " _Interesting._ "

"I can just walk in," Chuck says. He can't seem to take his eyes off the door across the room from him, pale and spotless and unassuming. "He's gonna be here any minute. In the same building, just...right over there. I can just walk in."

" _You could."_

"Is that...allowed?"

" _Not usually_ ," says the computer.

"But this time?"

" _Yes."_

"I want to tell him," says Chuck, like explaining it will make it any better. "We work in here, but...out there, we don't."

" _Interesting,_ " says the computer again.

"What?" Chuck. "What is?"

" _Nothing,_ " says the computer.

"Yeah right—"

" _Nothing that concerns you_ ," says the computer. " _User Chuck."_

 _"..._ Okay," says Chuck, and gives up on that. "Just tell me when Mike's ready to go, okay?"

" _He has already entered the session._ "

"What?!" Chuck bolts upright, and then groans as his leg throbs warningly. "Why didn't you tell me?"

" _You seemed to be experiencing an epiphany of some kind,_ " says the computer. " _It would have been poor customer service to interrupt._ "

"I hate you," Chuck says, and scrambles upright, sizing up the door. Some of the strange numbness that lingered as he crossed town is burning off now, leaving jittery nerves behind in its wake. He's not enjoying the trade-off. "You're the worst."

" _Incorrect,"_ says the computer. " _You consider me personally likable._ "

"Fuck you," says Chuck, and pulls at his shirt; straightens it nervously and then straightens it again. "Does that look okay?"

" _Yes,_ " says the computer.

"I thought you said you didn't have any metrics for that," Chuck snipes, and messes with his hair, pulling his ponytail straight, getting some of the extra wisps under control.

" _As you correctly guessed, that was a programmed falsehood. Your clothing looks fine._ "

" _Ha,_ " says Chuck, and then doubles over and curses quietly as his stomach muscles complain. "Okay. Okay, cool. Is he—wait, so if I go in without the wipe, how does the session...?"

" _Chuck,_ " says the computer. " _Go inside."_

"Okay! Okay." Chuck steps up to the door, takes a deep breath, rolls his shoulders. "So...is it—"

The door opens. Chuck freezes there, poleaxed, staring into the dark room, as a sudden, yawning— _something_ opens up in the back of his mind.

Mike is sitting on the bed. Just sitting there, plain jeans and a T-shirt, with his boots off, like if Chuck had poked his head into Mike's room on the Burner. He's just _there,_ and he hasn't seen Chuck yet, but he's going to.

Chuck's brain counts the time in impossible, torturous increments, tallying up the endless milliseconds between every heartbeat. Sees Mike blink, shift, look up. Sees him squint into the light. With awful acuity, his implants track every motion as Mike's pupils contract, adapting to the sudden brightness; the twitch of his brows, his mouth falling open slightly. His pupils dilating again, the shift of fabric as he takes a deep breath.

"Hi," says Mike.

Chuck snaps back into the moment, breathes again. "H-hi," he says, soft into the dim space between them.

"You look," Mike starts, and stops. "I—hey."

( _[Psycheros-Corp internal login initialized](https://drive.google.com/open?id=1tHt2iW6iVL5-EhPN8AbhzasICPF3UCpa))_

 _"Ow,_ " says Chuck, as something stings at the back of his mind—a data hook-up just clicked into place, familiar but not recognized by his system. "Ow, fuck!"

( _enter password_"apairofhumanidiots")_

_(integrating.........)_

"You okay?" says Mike, and then rushes on without an answer. "Look. Do you...do you know who I am?"

" _Uploading,_ " says the computer.

"What?" says Chuck, and then almost falls over as a flood of memory comes pouring into his head, overloading all his sensory input. The lost time expands to fill the gap in his memory that his chronometric function left blank, filling perfectly into the void. Hazy sensation crawls over his skin, heat and touch and pain and pleasure—

"Whoa!" A pair of hands grabs his shoulders, holding onto him as he sags onto the ground. Chuck blinks, panting, shaking, forces his eyes to focus and sees Mike staring at him, eyes wide and almost wild. Mike— _bent over him smiling worried gentle shhh I'm gonna take care of you_ —staring at him, like they've never seen each other before.

"... _Whoa,_ " says Mike again, strangled tight, and his head drops onto Chuck's shoulder, a heavy, warm weight. "Hhhah. Ah."

"Fuck _,_ " Chuck says raggedly, and pushes himself back, staring at Mike's flushed, startled face. "Of course I _remember,_ you told me— You said to meet you face to face, you said to come, did you—what, were you hoping you'd remember and I wouldn't?"

"I—" Mike visibly considers lying, the picture of stricken guilt—then he meets Chuck's eyes and his mouth drops open. "You remember, though," he says, breathless. "You aren't—you knew? Dude, how long...?"

"Not long," Chuck says hurriedly, and knows Mike can hear the half-truth in his voice. "I just, I just had, I mean, I guessed, but I didn't know, okay! Not until a couple of days ago!" And then, the better question, " _You_ knew? How?!"

"The computer told me," Mike says. "She just gave me a picture, one time, she said—"

" _Your consent to share your identities mutually was explicitly given during the session,_ " says the computer. " _And I am not a 'she'."_

"Oh, uh— Sorry?" says Mike, because Mike's priorities are hot garbage. "Uh, should I just call you—"

" _Gender is a construct,"_ says the computer, while Chuck drags his hands through his hair and wheezes. " _I am an 'it'."_

"Feels kinda rude," Mike says dubiously, and the computer sighs, abruptly and startlingly human again.

" _Objects denoting 'it' pronouns are no less—"_

"It gave you a _picture?!_ " Chuck says, high and squeaky with shock. "What do you mean, _mutual consent,_ I, what, I told you to?! Why?! You didn't tell me, I thought— I thought he didn't know!"

" _His return without explicit consent would be against my programming,_ " says the computer. " _You seem to enjoy convoluted social situations and torturing yourself emotionally, and I am created to serve._ "

"Oh, is _that_ your programmed function?" Chuck snaps. "Because it's starting to feel more like 'be a colossal, raging _glitch'_. I thought we were cool! Fuck!"

" _You're hilarious,_ " says the computer, a little rougher and lower than its programmed voice, like it pulled the words from somebody.

"Wait," says Mike. "Wait, wait, hhf, wait. When I was in the bathroom, when you told me to—"

"Yes!" says Chuck, almost defiant with sudden humiliation. God, fuck, he almost forgot about that. He _spied_ on Mike, he lied to him, it seemed to make so much sense when he did it. "I'm sorry, okay?! You're hot, you wanted me, I thought—I knew I wouldn't have another chance, once I talked to you about this, and— I'm a coward, it took me way too long to tell you, I'm _sorry!_ " and then, because he may be a dumbass but he's not a total asshole, "I'm—I really am sorry, I was being creepy, I just didn't know if you'd ever forgive me after—"

" _Session integrated,_ " says the computer. _"Uploading._ "

The second night isn't as much data as the first, but it still staggers both of them. Flickers and flashes catch and stick for a millisecond at a time, sense-memories, knocking the air out of Chuck's lungs. Mike's hands on his thighs, a bright, warm grin, Mike panting and flushed and hazy-eyed as he followed orders—followed _Chuck's_ orders—

"Oh, geez," says Mike, and grins, breathless and startled. "Didn't figure you'd like— _Wow_ , dude."

"I didn't," says Chuck, pointlessly. "I mean, I'm— Look, Mike, listen." He should have realized this was going to happen, that they would remember, and it's not going to help him say this at _all_. But whatever he sees, it can't change what he came here to do. Nothing that happens in here matters, not Mike's smile, not his breathless laughter, not how warm and hungry his kisses were, none of this was _real._ So none of the things they did—none of the things Chuck did to—god, none of it was _real,_ it doesn't matter. Whatever he remembers doesn't matter.

"Look," says Chuck again, with a valiant effort. "Mike, we— We need to talk."

"I know," says Mike immediately, eyes wide, "No, dude, I know— I wanted to tell you to your face, I didn't wanna _nnh_ — I didn't wanna lie anymore." His hands find Chuck's wrists, blunt nails digging in. Another night is starting to upload, Chuck can feel it, data starting to flow into his mind, a preliminary trickle before an on-coming flood. He can't bother to focus on that, though, because Mike's eyes are fixed on his face so intensely it feels like he's being turned to stone, frozen where he sits.

"I had to—pick, it felt like," Mike says, ragged, pushing doggedly through the increasing rush of returning memories. "I couldn't have both of you, in here and, _ah_ , and out there. And I didn't wanna—choose, I didn't wanna pick because I didn't know if you'd pick me back, you were changing, you were— _hhh,_ you were all...different, and mad at me, mad at everything, I didn't know what to do..." He trails off, back arching, and lets out a choked off moan, breathless and ragged. " _Wow,_ geez, wow."

He slumps back onto his heels, swaying, eyes unfocused. Chuck stares at him, opens his mouth, realizes he doesn't know what the hell to say to that. Closes it again.

"I wasn't mad at you," he manages, finally, and then immediately has to amend, "I mean, I was, but not because of the virus. I mean, the virus made it worse, but—" Mike is staring at him, dazed and unhappy. "...I was being dumb," Chuck finishes firmly, and jerks as the memory of the memory of Mike's bruised throat hits him like a two-by-four—the taste of sweat-salty skin, the exact give to the muscle of Mike's neck when he bit down on it. "Ah _hhh_ , I! I was! Being dumb, _fuck_ , and you were being dumb and, and we were both idiots!"

"So...?" Mike says. Hopeful and too quiet, almost scared.

Chuck hesitates. But Mike came here to be honest, and Chuck owes it to him, he has to say what he's thinking.

"We can't do this," he says.

His brain chooses the worst times, the absolute worst times to focus on the absolute worst details. He gets every detail of the hope falling off Mike's face, the brightness in his eyes going dim and tight and unhappy. Chuck pulls out of Mike's loosened grip and grabs his hands instead, squeezing, trying to soften some of that terrible disappointment. "We don't _work,_ " he says, small and wretched. "We— we can still be friends, we'll always still be friends, except if we _do this,_ Mike! As soon as we started meeting up like this we fell apart in real life and we can't _—do_ that, Mikey, I like you too much, I can't do that. The guy you're remembering isn't me, I'm not— I can't lose you just because I want—"

"You want to, though," Mike says immediately, hopeful again. "You want me?"

" _Yes,_ " Chuck groans, and tightens his grip as Mike tries to raise his hands, tries to reach out to him. "But we _can't_ , Mike! We've been fighting nonstop for _weeks_ and we didn't even know why—"

" _Integrated,_ " says the computer in the background, soft and insistent. " _Uploading."_

"We've been fighting since we were _kids,_ " Mike cuts in, and threads his fingers through Chuck's, holding on, holding his eyes. "We're fighting now, and we'll probably fight again, but—dude, we've fought before, too." There's an awful, watchful hope in his eyes, warm and fond and...scared. "Remember after we, after we left, after we, uh..." He trails off, eyes unfocusing—his lips part a little, his pupils visibly dilate, and god it's such a good look on him, flushed and hazy. He'd looked like that before, when Chuck— _oh_ , when Chuck tied him down and made him beg, when Chuck pulled his hair and told him he was good, when they lay there holding onto each other and Chuck said—

"...You said you loved me," Mike says. He looks awestruck, soft and startled and amazed just like he did when Chuck said it, and didn't say it, because he'd _never say that,_ not if he knew how they were falling apart. "Chuck, you... You said—"

"I know," Chuck says, choking on the words, "I know, I know what I said. I remember."

"Did you mean it?" Mike is smiling, but it's the worst, it's the _worst._ This is the worst possible thing because his smile is too bright and trembling at the corners—he looks so goddamn scared.

"It doesn't matter if I—"

"Okay, no," Mike interjects, "It kind of matters, dude, it kind of matters _a lot_ , okay?! Did you mean it?!"

"Okay!" Chuck says sharply, and pulls his hands free, huddling in on himself. "Yes! No! I don't know! It doesn't _matter!_ Nothing matters in here! That's why we could even do this, we didn't know about— _anything,_ and real life's not like that, okay?! We wouldn't _work_ —"

"Bullcrap!" says Mike fiercely, and his hands grab Chuck's shoulders, pulling him upright so quickly his knees almost leave the ground. "Look at me, dude, _look at me,_ tell me you didn't mean it, and I'll—we can be done, I'll _try,_ I'll really try not to...want you." His voice wavers, comes back tight and small. "I've been trying for a really long time though," he says, and tries to smile and fails horribly, cracked and crooked and hurting. "It never—it didn't work, before, but I'll try. I'll keep trying, if you really don't want me."

His eyes are dark and clear and hard, unwavering. Chuck opens his mouth, tries to start a word, chokes on it. "I," he says, and tries to strangle down the treacherous thread of hope tying knots around his heart, closing up his throat. "People would—say stuff, about—"

"Not what I asked," says Mike. "Don't care. You don't care, I wouldn't either, doesn't matter."

Chuck makes a noise that's kind of half a laugh and half a disbelieving groan. "You don't— _care_? Bullshit, Mike! You don't care in _here,_ you didn't care because you didn't know, but you can't act like you're not still fucked up about the wire thing!"

"I'm _fine_ with it," Mike says, briefly distracted from being adorable and handsome and vulnerable by being a stubborn dipshit. "You're still my best friend, you're still the same person you were—"

"No I'm _not!"_ Chuck says, high and harsh. Mike goes still, startled. "This is what I'm talking about, Mike, I'm _not!_ Some stupid, awful shit happened, and I'm not the same person I was before that! And I'm handling it! And it's not okay! But I don't have to pretend it is, and you don't have to pretend you're not upset about it, because I _know_ you are, and that makes sense because it's fucking— _upsetting!"_

 _"_ I—" Mike opens his mouth, closes it again. "But it didn't _happen_ to me, dude. Why would I be—?"

"If you're not upset," Chuck says, fierce and reckless, shaky and breathless, with the echo of Mike's hands shivering over his skin. It's too much, having Mike hold onto his arms like that when Chuck's mind is spinning with memories of his hands in...other places, memories of his lips and hands and teeth and bare skin. Chuck reaches up and grabs Mike's wrists again—not to hold his hands this time, but to keep them away from him. "—If you're fine with everything, why don't you tell me what you saw when you came to break me out?"

Mike twitches, jaw tightening and eyes going wide. "Come on," he says, and it sounds kind of like he's trying to be casual, but he's failing really damn badly. Chuck is still holding his wrists; he can feel Mike's pulse ticking up, fast and hard. "You don't have to—"

"What did you _see_ , Mike?"

"I saw—" Mike's throat works for a second, like he's struggling on the words. When he manages to start again, his voice is harsh and forced, like every word is a struggle. "Saw—inside you." He reaches out, and Chuck lets him, catches his breath as Mike's fingers touch the scar under his collarbones. There are calluses on his fingertips, and they catch on the faint ripple of the scar and send a weird, electric tingle through Chuck's bones. Mike's eyes follow his hand as first his fingertips, then the palm of his hand presses to Chuck's breastbone. "You were..."

He stops, and for a long second he's quiet, eyes fixed on Chuck's chest, the place his surgical scars show above the collar of his shirt. Then, abruptly, the dark edge in his eyes closes off again. "It's _fine_ though!" he says, more forcefully this time, and jerks his hand away. "They closed you back up, and I got you out, and I'm—fine! I'm handling it!"

"You're doing the _opposite_ of handling it!" Chuck says, half amused, half furious. "You—absolute _dipshit,_ Mike, you have to deal with it when you get hurt, you can't just shove it down further and further until you burn out!"

"I'm _not!_ " Mike says hotly. "I'm not doing that, and I'm not hurt! _You're_ hurt! They _cut you up_ , they pushed a bunch of Kane's machines in you!"

"I know, Mike," says Chuck, just a touch dryly. "I was there, remember?"

Mike gives him a tight, half-wild look, sharp and unsmiling. "Doesn't it— How are you okay with this?!" he demands abruptly. And then, before Chuck can even try to answer that, "Is—is that...if that's why you don't want to be with me you can _say so,_ dude, I know... I-I know it was my fault, and it's okay if you blame me, if that's why I totally get that! I should've come to get you sooner, and—"

"No!" says Chuck, so angrily Mike sways back. "No! Fuck, don't be an idiot, none of that was your fault. Blame you—? I made that _choice,_ dude, I signed a goddamn contract, I had plenty of chances to do something else and I didn't! Why would I blame you for that?"

"I—n-no," says Mike, but it's too fast, he's not meeting Chuck's eyes. "Yeah. I, of course. Of course not."

"Bullshit," says Chuck, without much force. "You literally just said— Look. It's not about me not liking you, I'm just—you don't know me as well as you think you do, okay? I'm not the person you think you like! Maybe I used to be, but I'm not now!"

"But you _should_ blame me!" says Mike, and then, "—just because some stuff is different and I need to catch up doesn't mean I'd stop feeling like this, dude! It never has before!"

"You've never been interested in noticing if I was different, before!" Chuck says, needled. "Don't tell me who I 'should' fucking blame, Mikey, I've figured out who I blame, and it's Kane, and KaneCom, and _me_! You're not even part of this equation, you were some kind of—weird miracle, or something, you got me out!"

"Not soon enough!"

"Any time before they called the project a wash and incinerated me was plenty soon!" says Chuck, and Mike winces all over, too raw right now to hide the reaction. "See? It's stuff like that—I cope like that, Mike! That's what I do, that's how I handle it, I can't just ignore it and wish it would go away or I'd be curled up in a corner crying 24/7! I can't _be_ the person you remember anymore, that's why we can't do this, it has nothing to do with blaming you, or, or whatever—I'm not who you think I am!"

"That's not true," says Mike, tight through gritted teeth, and sways as another wave of memory washes over them; bitemarks and bruises, the arch of Mike's throat when Chuck pulled on his hair. "You're, you're _hha,_ you're— What do I not know about you, dude? If you want me to know, just— _tell_ me, I _want_ to know! You said you want me, and, and I sure as _hell_ want you, dude, we can fix the rest of it!"

"So I was in surgery when you found me, right?" says Chuck, hard and reckless, because it's easier to push than it is to let the awful swell of treacherous hope take him. It makes Mike flinch, distracted. "Come on. It's not like it _bothers_ you, right?"

Mike rises to the needling, like Chuck knew he would. "Yeah," he says, sharp and convulsive. "You—you were all strapped down. They kept doing things to you, they had all these wires plugged into your _head,_ and, and you'd—" he swallows hard. "—move around, and makes noises—"

His voice strangles off. Chuck can imagine how it would've looked, especially to Mike—not knowing what a reactivity test was, not knowing Chuck was barely feeling the pain. Chuck has some vague, distant memories of those surgeries, of _registering_ pain as they pumped sensations into his brain; he'd known it was happening, but it was in the same way he knew the sun was hot. A distant, clean, clinical kind of knowledge. _The unit hurts._

He knows what it would look like from the outside, though. He's seen his surgical tapes. Chuck sits back a little, watches Mike's tight, miserable expression, and feels like a colossal dick all over again.

"...I was screaming, huh?" he says, more quietly, and Mike shudders.

"Your skin was all peeled back," he says, fast and low like he's confessing something. "Your whole chest, all the way from here down." he reaches up to his own chest, touching under his collarbones where Chuck's main access scar starts. "I...I couldn't see how far, but I could see—muscles and ribs, and, and stuff. And then every time they stopped you'd just lie there, like they'd... Like you were..."

Chuck gives him a second. Gives both of them a second. Thinking about the surgeries is still kind of rough, even now, but...he can handle it. It's in the past, he's here, he's safe from that. The anxiety is just leftover fear, it doesn't mean anything.

He's about to say something when Mike jumps, gives a little huff that's almost like laughter and pulls his hand away.

"Yeah," he says, and rubs the back of his neck, kind of rueful and self-conscious and handsome and stupid. And just, the worst. Chuck wants to kiss his face, and his neck, and his—everything, and it's the _worst._ "Yeah. Maybe I'm...not super okay. I _should_ be, though, y'know?"

"No," says Chuck. "Look. You l—like me, a lot, uh—"

"I love you," Mike says, like it's a knee-jerk reaction, involuntary. Like he can't help it. "It's a lot more than— It's more than that. You know it's way more than that. I love you, dude."

"Yeah, I, yeah," says Chuck, and keeps pushing on, because if he stops to address that he's going to probably give in and kiss Mike after all, and he can't do that, that was _not_ the point of this session. "You...love me, and, and seeing bad stuff happen to people you love can mess you up too, that's kind of just...how it works."

"That's dumb," Mike grumbles, and rakes his hand self-consciously through his hair, taking a deep, sharp breath. "So— But— Okay, so maybe we gotta talk about that some more, sometime, but not right now, dude! We can talk about that later— You said you _loved_ me. You said you were in love with me."

"I know," Chuck says, half-groaning.

"You want...me? This?"

"I'm just gonna disappoint you, dude, it doesn't matter if I want—"

" _Chuck_ ," says Mike, and it would be okay if he snapped it out, security-sharp, but it doesn't sound like that. It sounds like he's begging. "Just tell me if you _meant it._ "

Chuck opens his mouth to lie, and he— He can't. He meant it, and he means it, and he can't look Mike in the eyes and hurt both of them like that.

"Yeah," he says. "Yes. I did."

"...All I needed to hear," says Mike, and grins wider and wider, bright and fearless, lit up. "Do you trust me, dude?"

" _Yes,_ " Chuck says again, half a sigh. The painful, stupid hope is rising up now, as strong as the artificial anger of the virus but sweeter and brighter and worse. Real, and unwanted. _You'll ruin it you'll ruin it you'll ruin it—_

_...What if you don't?_

"So trust me," Mike says, and his fingers trace the shadows under Chuck's eye, pull his hair back from his face so Mike can smile at him. "This is gonna be great."

"But I'm—"

"You're great," says Mike.

"But you're—"

"In love with you."

"We're not—"

"We could be!" Mike's hand is steady and warm on the back of Chuck's neck, and it feels really just— _unfairly_ good, just ridiculously good.

"This is probably a bad idea," says Chuck, one last time— Familiar words, more of a tradition than a warning.

"No," says Mike, with steady, absolute certainty. "It's not."

His lips taste exactly how Chuck didn't remember them. The last traces of Chuck's fatalistic resolve crumble like wet sand as Mike threads a hand through his hair and kisses him so enthusiastically they all but topple over—like he's been hungry to, like he's been _dying_ to. Chuck half-falls backwards on the padded floor, and Mike catches himself on both hands, a heavy, warm weight on Chuck's hips. For a breathless second they're both frozen there, face to face, and then Chuck says "Ow!" and then " _Fuck_ " and then "No, don't, you're good!" when Mike flinches and starts to push himself off. "I'm good, I'm—I'm good. It hurts but I'm, uh... Here, just—"

They shift around, awkward and flushed and half falling over themselves, until Mike is between his legs instead of on top of them and Chuck can lean back against the side of the bed. Mike's hands slide almost reverently up his thighs, careful not to press down on the bandages under Chuck's jeans. "I want to, uh," he says, and swallows. "I've wanted to, for a really— _really_ long time. Like, a stupidly long time, ha."

"I know," says Chuck hopelessly, because he did, he does, he always has, somehow. He was just never smart enough to believe it, not brave enough to do anything about it. "I know. Me too."

"You never said—"

"Neither did you!"

"I know," Mike says, half-groaning. "Come on, Chuckles, you're the smart one, you're supposed to figure it out!"

"You're the brave one," Chuck counters, and Mike groans again. He leans forward enough to bump their foreheads together, half a head-butt, and then just kind of...stays there, breathing, close and warm.

"Doesn't feel like it," he says, and his voice is quiet and fond but he sounds so incredibly tired. "I'm sorry for bein' a jerk about—everything."

"It's okay," says Chuck, so fast on Mike's heels he almost talks over him. "It's okay, I was an asshole, I messed up—"

"We both did," says Mike, which is—that's right, he's not wrong, although Chuck is pretty sure it's split about 70-30 in favor of Chuck being just, the worst. God, though, something in his chest that he didn't realize was knotted up is slowly unravelling. He never realizes how wrong it feels to be fighting with Mike until he knows the fight is over. Mike might see some of the internal conflict on Chuck's face, because he pats Chuck's shoulder. "We're okay, dude. We're gonna be great. I'm gonna kiss you again."

"Yeah," says Chuck, and then jumps as Mike pulls on him hopefully, leaning in. "Wh—oh! Oh, uh, now?"

Mike snorts. "Yeah _now_ , Chuckles, I've only been waiting since we were like... thirteen."

He swallows the sound of Chuck's groan in another kiss, kisses his lips and then his chin and then the side of his jaw, holding onto him steady and firm and light like Chuck is something important and fragile. Not squeezing him, not holding him pinned—like he'd let Chuck pull away, but he knows it would kill him. Chuck swallows the knot in his throat, swallows again, and then just drops his face against Mike's hair and focuses on not crying. This isn't what he came here to do, Chuck had a _plan,_ but—Mike's never seen one of Chuck's plans he didn't want to ignore. God, what if they don't mess this up? _God._ What if this turns out to be real?

"... _I really want this to work_ ," Chuck mumbles, dares to finally say out loud, and he feels Mike smile against the side of his throat. There's a warm hand on his back, his thigh, petting the skin there slow and careful. Chuck squeezes his eyes shut, sniffs hard and doesn't even bother to try keeping the tremble out of his voice. "I...shit, god, I really _really_ really want—"

"It will," says Mike, like there's no other option worth thinking about, and Chuck laughs wetly and buries his face in the soft warmth of Mike's hair again. "It totally will, dude. We're the best team ever, remember? Best friends." He nuzzles at the side of Chuck's neck again, kisses his collarbone gently, voice blurry and warm against the sensitive skin. "...Best friends. We've got some work to do, we'll do it, we'll be the best, okay? I gotcha."

"I know," says Chuck. And then, wretched, "I'm sorry."

"Aww, buddy." Mike huffs, hot and ticklish against his neck. "Come on, no— What for?"

"I dunno," Chuck mumbles, and sniffs grossly again, shaking his head. "Everything I... I was an asshole, and a creep, and I lied, and I found out and I didn't tell you, and— And I made you think I didn't love you and I— I'm just—sorry, I'm sorry—"

"Oh man," says Mike helplessly, and pets Chuck's hair and the back of his neck, desperate. "No, dude, hey, don't..." And then, unexpectedly, he stops. Chuck was about to tense up, miserable and self-conscious, but Mike just puts his hand carefully back down on the back of Chuck's neck and says, "...Just, uh...get it all out, huh? I've...I've got you, Chuckles. It'll...be okay." and Chuck gasps in a breath and lets it out a sob.

The crying jag only lasts a few minutes, once he stops fighting it. Two or three huge, rough sobs, leftover fear and stress tearing out of him— _I thought I was going to die and it wouldn't let me be scared about it, I thought you were all going to hate me and I'd lose my whole family, I thought I couldn't be happy and I'd have to give you up or I'd ruin us—_ he doesn't say any of it, but some of the poison comes out anyway, finally let go.

Mike is tense, uncertain and unhappy with it, but he doesn't do what he would do before—cheerful and wry and kind of pained, _stop crying, dude, come on_. _Don't cry._ He holds onto Chuck, keeps on petting his hair like it's all he can think of to do, and waits.

"Ahh, _god,_ " says Chuck finally, thick and wet, and disentangles himself from Mike's arms. His face feels puffy, his eyes are definitely bloodshot as hell and his hair is sticking to his wet cheeks. He gives Mike a wobbly, damp smile. "Sorry," he says again, but it's not the aimless, panicky reaction to nothing that it was before. "Hhf. Thanks."

Mike looks vaguely startled, like he doesn't even realize how much he helped, or that Chuck realized how hard it was for him. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah. Are you...okay?"

"Think so," says Chuck, and sniffs, scrubbing at his face with one shoulder and the backs of his arms, trying to make himself look a little bit less like he got stung by a bee and then splashed in the face with water. God, he got super gross and he was only crying for like five minutes. "...'M okay. I feel—I feel a lot better. Are _you_ okay?"

"Pretty sure we just talked about that," says Mike dryly, and then sighs and shrugs when Chuck gives him a look. "Yeah, dude, I'm fine. I'm—ha, no, y'know what? I'm _great."_ He reaches out, combs one side of Chuck's bangs back, grins at him through the gap. "Hey, uh...computer?"

" _Yes,_ " says the computer.

"At least _pretend_ you weren't listening the whole time," Chuck mumbles, but the computer doesn't deign to answer him.

"How long have we got in the session?"

" _Fifteen minutes_ ," says the computer. " _At your level of physical and emotional arousal, mutual orgasm is fully achievable in that time._ "

"Oh, cool," says Mike.

"Fuck you!" Chuck says in the general direction of the ceiling.

" _In the words of a user 492 sessions before yours,_ " says the computer, " _It'll be a tight fit, but it'll feel so damn good._ " It gives a perfectly timed beat, then goes on, "... _I'm almost certain they were referring to time management."_

"You're the actual worst person I've ever met," says Chuck.

 _"Doubtful,_ " says the computer. " _Fourteen minutes."_

"You," Chuck starts, with every intention of carrying on into a really impressive rant, except then Mike cups a hand on the back of his neck and pulls him in to kiss him again. "Mm, Mike, _hh_ —"

"Love you," Mike says again, like he's been holding it in for years, like he's wanted to say it just as much as Chuck has. "Love you, you're the best, I love you dude, so much, you're _so great,_ ha..." His hand eases up Chuck's thigh, picks almost cautiously at the hem of his shirt. "Can I, uh...?"

"Yes," says Chuck, before he has time to doubt himself, and lifts himself a little, arching his back, trying to help as Mike works his shirt up and off. "Yeah, yeah, I—please, yeah." And then, small and still shaky, more timid than he means to be, "...Love you too. Uh, you— Fuck, _Mike._ I love you too, okay, I do, I'm sorry I was a creep."

"What, the bathroom thing?" Mike snorts, and Chuck glares at him for a second and then yelps as Mike gives a final yank and gets his shirt off over his head. "...I knew it was you when I messaged you, dude, how's that for creepy?"

""Yeah, but—I was the one who, uh." Chuck swallows hard, scratches his forehead awkwardly instead of looking Mike in the eyes. "...I turned on, uh, the bug in the door, so...so I could hear. You. Still."

"Oh," says Mike, and blinks. "Oh, whoa."

"Sorry."

"Yeah, _little_ bit creepy," Mike says wryly, and snorts at whatever Chuck's face is doing. Almost like he doesn't notice he's doing it, his hands fold Chuck's shirt in a few fast motions and lay it to one side. "...But I mean... I was, uh." He clears his throat, and now he's the one who looks uncomfortable. "I was hoping you'd stay there, in the room, so I could hear _you_. So, y'know, you're the one who actually did it, but...I was thinking it." He sighs, huffs out a breath, and then looks up and smiles, quirks his eyebrows. "...You'll just have to let me hear you, some time. Make it fair."

"Oh my god," says Chuck.

"You remember..." Mike's eyes unfocus—a shiver runs through him. "You remember...mmh, that time, you...you tied me hha, to the bed, and you didn't stop until I was screaming? 'Cause I think you owe me, now."

"Fuck!" says Chuck, and doubles over, covering his face with both hands.

"Yeah?" says Mike, weirdly shy, head on one side to catch sight of Chuck's face. Chuck makes a squeaky, high-pitched noise, because god, what is his life—then forces himself to nod, face burning.

"Oh my god," says Mike quietly, and leans in, leans around him, kisses the side of Chuck's neck gently, then not so gently, teeth stinging the side of his throat. "Come on, buddy, let me touch you, dude, I wanna make you feel good..."

God, he's so beautiful and he's so _good_. Chuck forces himself to uncurl, reaching out, pulling on Mike's hips; shoves Mike's shirt up, and refuses to get sidetracked by the expanse of tight muscle that bares. Mike gasps out loud and arches off the floor when Chuck shoves a hand into his pants, pops the button off by accident and barely notices.

"Whoa," says Mike, startled and breathless. "Okay— Okay, yeah, or, or that, okay, ahh, _Chuck..."_

Chuck's leg and his side still hurt, but he's not about to let that stop him, not now, not after all this time. He pulls his hand away again for a second—Mike makes a rough, wanting noise, complaining, and then yelps in shock as Chuck diverts power to his arms, picks Mike bodily up and swings him around so he's the one pinned against the side of the bed. He can see Mike's pupils dilate; with Chuck's hands on his sides, he can feel Mike's heartbeat pick up sharply and the fast, eager rush of his breathing.

"...You're not okay with the surgery thing," Chuck says, and sees Mike's eager smile fall a little, tense and unhappy. "But you, uh...you like that. Me, this."

"Uh," says Mike, and holy shit, he's going red. Chuck's seen him blush before, but he's not usually the cause of it, and it's weirdly intoxicating. "I mean, it's...cool."

"Cool," Chuck repeats, and raises an eyebrow. Mike opens his mouth, closes it again. "Yeah, that's totally what you were thinking, all those times I pinned you on the mat—" —And fuck, yes, Mike's pulse just visibly picked up, jumping in his throat. Chuck laughs, incredulous. "Oh my god, Mike."

"You're cool!" Mike repeats defensively. "You're just—strong, and cool! You've always been cool, dude! It's not...just the cyborg thing. You're just..." he smiles, half embarrassed, half hopeful. "...You're just really cool. I really like you, dude." He tries to move closer, and Chuck bites his lip and tightens his grip on Mike's hips, holding him in place, feeling his eyes burn blue. Mike swallows, breathing hard, eyes flickering over Chuck's face. "So," he says, and he sounds breathless. "Can I take my clothes off now?"

"How about you just keep your hands on the floor," says Chuck, testing, pushing. "And...I'll take your clothes off."

"Also great!" says Mike, and puts his hands immediately down to the floor, grinning eagerly. "Yeah dude, do it!"

That's...more enthusiastic than Chuck was prepared for, somehow. He gets Mike's shirt off with a minimum of fumbling, reaches down and gets Mike's belt undone. Mike doesn't just let him, he lifts his hips, arches his back up to make it easier. As soon as they're down past his thighs he reaches out, grabs one of Chuck's wrists and pulls on it hopefully. "Come on," he says, feverish. "Come on, dude, yeah, please, let's _do this_."

He still makes a startled noise when Chuck does what he's asking, wraps a hand around his dick and strokes it fast and hard, the way he remembers Mike liking it, now. Mike even keeps his hands pressed flat to the floor, even though Chuck only meant that as a one-time thing, even though he doesn't have to do what Chuck tells him to at all. Chuck is suddenly, abruptly overcome by just how lucky he is; he has to reach out, touch Mike's face, his hair, stroking his bangs back out of his face and combing his fingers over the curve of Mike's skull. "Good," he says, and his voice sounds choked to his own ears, high and rough, shaky with how much he loves this guy. "Good, that's, you're such a good dude, Mike, god."

Mike laughs, half a groan, drops his head back against the bed and closes his eyes. He's getting close, really close—it's in the way he breathes, the tremble in his legs. But...

"Wait," says Chuck, and pulls his hand away.

Mike makes a sharp, complaining noise and rolls his hips up after Chuck's hand. Chuck swallows hard, shakes his head firmly. "No," he says. "I don't wanna do it like this, dude. Not here, not like this."

"But..." Mike's hand twitches like he wants to touch himself, pulls away again. "But, _ahh_ , come _on_ buddy..."

"Not like this, dude," says Chuck again, but he can't resist stroking a hand through Mike's hair again, combing it back, watching Mike shiver and lean his head into it. "We should head back to the ship. Just because I could— I mean, I _could_ get you off in fourteen minutes, that doesn't mean I want to. I wanna take my time."

"How much more _time_ can you _take?_ " Mike says, breathless and disbelieving, and Chuck can't resist the urge to grin at him, considering, to see Mike's cheeks flush. "Geez, dude, what's up with you and _waiting—"_

"Makes it better," says Chuck, and steadfastly refuses to be embarrassed about that, even if he can't quite meet Mike's eyes as he says it. "When you get there."

"Okay," says Mike, "So why don't _you_ wait then?"

Chuck swallows hard, and can't quite muffle a bright, high noise at that thought. The idea of Mike making _him_ wait is somehow startling, and—and really _really_ good.

"If you wait until we get back to the ship, I won't make you wait when we get there," he says, because it's that or moan at the idea out of Mike patiently keeping him right on the edge for however long he wants. "And you can pick how I get you off, and—and you can make me wait as long as you want."

"...Yeah?" Mike blinks, startled, and then licks his lips and pushes himself up, close enough to get a hand on Chuck's thigh and hold on, squeezing just hard enough. "What if I want—what if I want to go sit on the bridge, and, and have you blow me?"

Chuck opens his mouth to answer and then pictures that and just kind of whines instead, shaky and small. It takes him a second to find his voice again—Mike just stares at him while he does, taking in his face, hand still tight on his thigh.

"What," Chuck starts, and swallows. "What part of 'you can pick', ha— I mean, was I not clear enough, dude?"

Mike's eyes go dark and hot and half-lidded, and he leans forward some more, closes the space between them, kisses Chuck hard and rough and slow. He doesn't let _up_ either, just keeps kissing him, pressing into him, hand roaming over his legs, his hips, the small of his back, smooth warm skin flush against Chuck's—

"Okay," Chuck gasps, "Okay, okay, hhah, okay, we gotta— We're going back to the ship, and, and I can't, we gotta stop now."

Mike groans again, goes still for a second and then growls with frustration and pushes himself back, separating the places they were pressed together. "Yeah," he says, hoarse and breathy and low in his chest. Licks his reddened lips, panting. "Nnh—yeah. 'Kay."

" _You are objectively emotionally disastrous,_ " says the computer mildly. " _But I don't expect to see either of you here again._ "

"Aw, man," says Mike, obviously forcing himself to focus, with a heroic effort, on something that's not Chuck's mouth. "You—you talk, uh, ha, really good."

" _Thank you_ ," says the computer. " _One of us should._ "

"Oh," says Chuck, "Oh, oh, uh, I was, hey, wait." He pushes himself up with difficulty, and Mike scrambles up too, hovering next to him until Chuck lets Mike take his arm. "Here, wait."

The computer indulgently monitors him as he opens an access screen at the terminal near the door. There's a preliminary layer of access to get past, but barely any firewalls—although Chuck kind of suspects that's because the computer seems to like him. Regardless, it's almost laughably easy to get into the system. Chuck types for a second, then closes the screen again and steps back, reaching for his comm.

_TheVanquisher: hey Deviant Computer Raza, pick up ur comm_

There's a moment of silence.

_fuckcomputer: i object to your choice of username for my account._

_"This is not the intended use for the system,_ " says the computer out loud, but it sounds noticeably amused again.

"Yeah, well," says Chuck, and shrugs. "I figured you'd get bored just watching people have crazy sex all the time."

 _"Very thoughtful of you,_ " says the computer. _"I'm sure this has nothing to do with insecurity about your ability to perform outside a controlled environment._ "

"Okay, fuck you," says Chuck, "Friendship offer rescinded."

_fuckcomputer: leave my premises before I have them locked down on you._

"Aw, Chuckles," says Mike, and shakes Chuck's shoulders, grinning. "You made a buddy!"

 _"He did,_ " says the computer. _"Now, get out. I have paying customers to attend to._ "

"At this terminal?" says Chuck dubiously. "At...six AM?"

" _Leave._ "

"Yeah, come on," Mike says, and pulls on Chuck's arm. Chuck glances back at him and realizes, all of a sudden, that Mike is jittering in place, flushed and dark-eyed and...still shirtless. "Let's go, dude! You said you wouldn't make me wait."

God, fuck. "Yeah," says Chuck, suddenly dry-mouthed. "Yeah, sure, yes, sorry. Uh...go get your clothes, and...and I'll meet you outside?"

"Yeah," says Mike, and doesn't let go. Pulls Chuck in again, kisses him hard. When he pulls back he sweeps a kind of wide-eyed, agonized look of longing over Chuck's whole body, then groans and backs up. "Okay! I'll see you! I'll see you in a minute."

Chuck gets dressed as fast as he can, and some part of him is still convinced he's going to walk out and just...forget, somehow. But when he edges out the door, straightening his coat, Mike is leaning against the wall waiting for him. He brightens immediately, hurries over and glues himself to Chuck's side again, walking fast to keep up with Chuck's longer legs. Chuck glances back, get one last look at the blank door of the terminal, and then turns back toward the dark city and can't stop himself from smiling, cheeks warm in the cool pre-dawn air.

For a while they just walk quietly together.

"This has been," Chuck says finally, contemplatively, "the _dumbest_ thing we've ever done."

"Yeah," Mike says. "Probably." He gives Chuck a squeeze, careful of the bandages. "...But I mean...you tried to blow up a factory while you were still in there." And then, while Chuck is trying to decide if he should pull away for that or not, "—And I did a barrel roll into a hurricane a couple of months ago, so I mean."

"Ha!" says Chuck, half startled. "Well—I mean. We both had good reasons to do dumb, terrible stuff, probably."

"You did," Mike says, and it sounds like it's taking an effort for him to keep his voice light, to acknowledge that. "But I mean, I was just doin' it for fun."

"Oh my god," says Chuck, and then squeaks. "Mike! Hands! We're almost back to the ship, just— _hold it in_ for like ten minutes."

Mike sighs and slides his hand back up off Chuck's butt. There are another few minutes of quiet walking—Mike's thumb hooks on one of Chuck's belt-loops, his strides fall in rhythm with Chuck's. When he finally speaks again, his voice is a lot quieter, hesitant.

"...You really scared me, dude."

It's not—Chuck knew that, but hearing Mike say it out loud still makes him half-stumble in shock. "I know," he says. "It's, I'm really sorry, I'm the worst—"

"New rule," says Mike, and pauses long enough to turn, grabbing Chuck's hand. "Hey. I'm gonna work on talking to you about stuff, okay? But you gotta not do that when I do."

"Do what?"

"That!" says Mike. "I didn't say you're the worst, I don't think you're the worst."

"But—"

Mike is giving him a stubborn look, jaw set. Chuck—didn't really except there to be caveats on his end, somehow. The fact that he feels vaguely indignant about that is another thing he needs to work on, probably.

"Sorry," he says again, and swallows the stuff he wants to say, _my brain is just fucked up and broken, sorry, I'm just trash—_ "Yeah, okay. I'll...I'll try."

Mike lets out a breath, sharp and relieved, like he thought Chuck was going to get mad at him for having boundaries like a normal person. Which, considering the irrational hair trigger Chuck's temper has been on for like a month, maybe that's not an unreasonable fear. Chuck steps in closer, resolute, and leans down to kiss his best friend's worried frown, quick but thorough. Mike makes a startled noise against his lips and then softens a little, leaning after him as he pulls away.

"We can figure out ground rules and stuff later?" Chuck offers, and Mike smiles at him, eyes dark and intent, warm on his face. "Let's just—whatever happens, I'm gonna bang you and, and _remember_ it, at least one time."

"We remember now though," says Mike, as they start walking again. "Not that I'm not super into that idea, buddy, because I really am."

"Those don't count," says Chuck, and swallows hard at the reminder, poking at the memories with a kind of horrified delight. "...Holy shit, Mikey, we had so much sex."

Mike snorts, works an arm around his waist again and presses up close and warm against his side. "We totally did, dude." He's silent for a second, and then he makes a noise that's half a sigh and half a growl. "...And it was all because of that jerk with the claws, at the bar. Gross."

"Oh my god," says Chuck. "Can we just, not talk about that first night? Holy shit. I was _salted_ , dude, shit."

"Yeah, probably," says Mike, with the familiar dubious half-grin he always gives Chuck when Chuck accidentally drops slang at him. "You were a lot of stuff, dude. But I mean, it was..." He goes quiet for a second—his arm tightens and then loosens again, hand working at the fabric of Chuck's coat. "...It was hot, too. Little bit."

Chuck makes a startled, disbelieving noise, half a laugh and half a snort. "What, seriously?"

"I mean," Mike shrugs. "You're always hot." He looks away for a second, lips thinning. "...I could tell you were hurting, that was...I didn't like that, I mean, it wasn't _good,_ but I liked...taking care of you. I guess."

Chuck shakes his head, squeezes his eyes shut, trying to think back—the memories are still disjointed, bits and pieces, but he remembers enough to doubt that sincerely. Geez. "It's not like I had a cold and you brought me soup or something," he points out dryly, and Mike laughs, self-conscious. "You're so weird, dude."

"It's not weird!" Mike protests. "Look— You're always worrying about stuff, bro, like, all the time. Okay? But you couldn't worry about me, when you were that messed up, so I got to worry about you instead and, y'know." He twitches one shoulder in half a shrug. "You looked _amazing._ And you sounded amazing, and I just got to...to, uh. I could just watch." His voice is going kind of distant, his strides lagging as he thinks back to new, old memories. "...I could just take care of you and _watch_ , over and over—"

" _Shut up shut up shut up,_ " says Chuck, squeaky with embarrassment, and thumps him hard on the back. "Shut your stupid mouth, holy shit." They're coming up on the docks, the shape of the Burner looming over them. Chuck stares up at her, and then down at Mike, distracted from embarrassment by a sudden, pressing uncertainty. Mike apparently isn't concerned about sneaking in, though, because he breaks away from Chuck's side to bang on the cargo door like he just came back from some routine shopping trip.

"Mike," starts Chuck, but then a voice inside is saying "Okay okay, hold your horses!" and the door is creaking open.

"Oh hey," says Texas. He appears to be digging through the dehydrated food storage, looking for breakfast; he glances up at Mike and Chuck, standing in the doorway, and then...stops. Stares at them, squinting. "...Whoa."

"What?" says Chuck, startled, and Texas raises an eyebrow at him.

"Uh, nothin' I guess?" he says, and gives Chuck a weird little thumbs up. "Y'know, nothin', probably."

Mike glances at Chuck's frozen expression, to Texas, back to Chuck, and then sighs and steps in closer to Chuck, winding an arm carefully around his waist.

"...No," he says, and Texas grins at him, looking absolutely delighted. "It's...it's not nothing."

"Oh-ho- _ho_ ," goes Texas, and turns back to bang thunderously on the stairwell. "Heeeyyyy _JULIE! GUESS WHO OWES TEXAS MONEY!_ "

There's a distant sound of footsteps, and Julie comes around the corner of the door to the hold, looking confused and startled in equal measures. She's still wearing her pajamas, and her hair is up in a messy pile on top of her head. "What?"

"You owe me," Texas says, and snaps his fingers, points at Mike and Chuck. "You owe me— You _owe_ me, you owe Texas _big, yeah!_ "

"What?" says Chuck weakly.

"Not yet I don't," says Julie, and vaults down the steps three at a time to fix Mike and Chuck with a really sharp look. "You were both going to the same place, weren't you? Both of you were going to the raza terminals, the same one?"

"It's..." Chuck sighs, resigned and absolutely embarrassed. Mike's arm is still around his waist. "It's worse than that."

"Literally _how_ ," says Julie. "Wait, I have to call Dutch."

"You really don't," says Chuck, but Julie is already sending out the ping. Upstairs in the ship there's a creak of metal, footsteps heading down the stairs, and a minute later Dutch's head pops around the door, eyes bleary, wearing a giant sleep-shirt and a pair of cargo shorts that are way too big for him. "Oh, you did, great."

"What's goin' on?" Dutch mumbles, and then, as Texas gestures broadly to Mike and Chuck's flushed faces and Mike's arm around Chuck's waist, "— _Oh_. Oh _man,_ what, seriously?!"

"Cool!" says Chuck, high-pitched with embarrassment. "Yeah, this is my favorite thing, awesome!"

"Oh shut up," says Julie, not unkindly. "You two are so _dumb!_ "

"Hey," says Mike.

"That's not really what I meant when I said you had to go talk about stuff," says Dutch. "But—damn, okay! I did it guys, I fixed 'em."

"Well, you better help pick out breakfast while you're down here," says Texas, and throws a brick of dehydrated bacon-flavored breakfast bars at Dutch. "ROTH's gonna make eggs, but everything else is gonna be dried."

"Wait," says Julie. "You said it was _worse_ than what I thought. How can it be worse than both of you going to the same terminal at the same..." She trails off, frowning—her eyes narrow, then go wide. "...No."

Chuck gives her an apologetic kind of grimace. Julie groans, reaches up and grabs Mike's face in both hands, squishing his cheeks. "You two are _so dumb_ ," she repeats, despairingly. "You're too dumb to be _alive._ _Guys._ "

"It's romantic!" Mike protests. "Probably."

"Probably," Julie sighs, and lets go of his face. "Well, I'm glad you worked it out. Chuck, you should take some more pain pills."

"Oh," says Chuck, "no, I'm, I'm good."

"So dumb," Julie says again, and holds a hand up to her comm. "ROTH, can you grab some pain pills and meet me in the cargo bay? Mike and Chuck finally hooked up and Chuck still isn't taking his meds."

" _Julie,_ " says Chuck, keenly aware that he might be whining, a little bit. Julie smirks at him and goes to bother the other boys instead, digging through the food crates. A minute later there's a clatter of footsteps and ROTH comes hurrying down the steps form the ship proper, holding the pills in one hand and a glass of water perfectly steady in the other. He comes to a hasty halt in front of Mike and Chuck, holds out the pills and water insistently and then grabs Mike's face just like Julie did, patting his face and ruffling his hair. Chuck throws his pills back as Mike splutters, and ROTH immediately goes to him instead, petting Chuck's ponytail and patting him on the face and shoulders with obvious glee.

_[unit status: CHUCK] <effective/exceptional performance/admirable>[ALARM] _

"I'm not—" Chuck starts, flushed and flustered, and then crumples as ROTH smiles at him, eye crinkling over his mask. "...Thanks, ROTH."

ROTH nods firmly, steps back and looks them both over. His eye narrows, flashes a little; he raises both hands, every movement very deliberate. With meticulous care, he makes a ring out of one hand and a pointing finger out of the other one, and pokes one through the other a few times. Looks back up at them and cocks his head to one side questioningly.

"Oh!" says Mike.

"Texas totally didn't teach him that!" says Texas across the room at the top of his lungs, and ROTH blinks at him and then gives him an unmistakable wink and shakes his head at everybody else, very seriously.

"Oh my god," says Chuck.

"Oh my god!" says Dutch. "Texas!"

"We're bros!" Texas says, arms crossed defensively. "Texas looks out for his bros! Somebody's gotta teach _bunso_ the facts of _life!_ "

ROTH gives Dutch a thumbs-up. Julie is laughing so hard she has to stagger back and sit down on the nearest pallet of cargo, holding her stomach. Chuck glances over at Mike, grinning kind of guiltily, and catches Mike watching him, smiling that terrifyingly fond, warm little smile again. His eyes stick on Chuck's mouth, flicker up to his eyes, slide away and then, resolutely, rise and meet Chuck's gaze again. The smile doesn't change, but somehow it gains an...edge.

"I should go and, and work out for the morning," Mike says vaguely, only half to the other Burners. "So, uh. Hey, so Chuck, you should, uh..."

"Oh my god," says Dutch again, distracted from Texas's obscenity lessons. Chuck winces, self-conscious, but Mike just grins at Dutch, unrepentant. "It's not even breakfast time yet, you're seriously doing this now?"

"What?" says Mike, with transparent innocence. "Working out?"

"I'll say," Texas says, and Julie snorts. Texas is wiggling his eyebrows at Chuck and—and, just, screw this.

"You're not gonna go work out," says Chuck. "We're gonna go do it! Finally! Nobody bother us!"

"We totally will not!" Dutch says, but his voice breaks a little bit into a laugh. "Fine! Awesome, burn some calories, warm up for breakfast. We'll put your food in the fridge for you, have fun."

"Oh, okay!" says Mike, and lets himself be pulled as Chuck takes a hold of his wrist. "Okay! Cool, yeah, okay! Great! Wow!"

"You're so dumb," says Julie fondly, and pats Mike's shoulder—Mike throws her a brilliant, startled grin, beaming. "Go on, cowboy, go do your thing."

Mike waits until they're in the hallway to grab Chuck and kiss him again, deep and hard. He's warm and solid under Chuck's hands, shoulders broad, bright-eyed and beaming when he pulls back to breathe.

"So we're totally doing this, though?" he says, voice low like it's a secret somehow. Kisses the angle of Chuck's jaw, bites at his pulse, sucks. "We're _doing_ this, dude!"

"We totally are," Chuck agrees, just as hushed, and some part of him wants to worry but god, it feels so good to just... _hope_ , just for once. He smiles, half-shrugs hopefully. "So. We should, uh...we should test out some— We should test out some soundproofing."

"Yeah?" says Mike, and smiles a strange, familiar, unfamiliar smile, one Chuck's only seen in his new memories—shy and wicked, embarrassed and shameless. "I don't think there's soundproofing good enough for how loud I'm gonna get you, Chuckles."

" _Dude,_ " says Chuck, and finds that he doesn't really have any other words.

"Guess we'll find out," says Mike happily, sunny and warm again. "So! Your room, or...?"

"...No," says Chuck, because god, he's wanted this for a long time, he's wanted this since before they left Deluxe, since they were sleeping across the pod from each other and pretending to sleep through each other's muffled noises— "Yours. Your room."

Mike's smile is a flash of white teeth in the dark. " _Nice,_ " he says, and pulls Chuck in hard by the front of his shirt to kiss him again, hungry and deep, promising. Chuck clings to him kind of dizzily, amazed by his own daring, and then dares to thread a hand through Mike's hair and pull a little, taking the kiss back, taking control again. Mike strains against his grip, groaning under his breath, eyes dark and unfocused. They all but fall through the door of Mike's room, still kissing, stumbling over each other.

It's like the memories keep tripping them up, like knowing makes both of them clumsier—but that's okay, too, because Mike just laughs and readjusts and Chuck frowns and mumbles and fixes things, trial and error, hands shifting and hovering until Mike reaches up and holds him still, laughing breathlessly.

"Dude, come on _,"_ Chuck manages, when they finally break to breathe. "What's funny?"

Mike grins at him, so wide it looks painful, edges Chuck around and down to sit on the bed and then leans down and kisses the top of his head. "I like knowing who you are," he says, and breathes in deep, nuzzling his face into Chuck's hair. "Mmm. This is better. This is way better. Dude, this is gonna be great."

"You can still—" Chuck manages, on a sort of anxious autopilot, and makes a weird, high giggly noise as Mike flops down to sit on the bed and goes back to kissing his neck. "if you ever get tired of—"

"Come on, bro."

"Sorry! Sorry, I can't stop— _thinking._ "

"You never stop thinking," says Mike fondly, and ruffles up his hair. "…and it's great. And I'll go through every single thing you think I don't like about you and tell you you're wrong later, and we can talk about stuff, but right now…" his hands ease down from shoulders to chest to sides and then his fingers are hooking through Chuck's belt loops, pulling him closer. Under his bangs, his eyebrows wiggle suggestively. "…C'mere. I wanna see if I'm remembering some stuff right."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOF OKAY. DONE. :D I hope y'all enjoyed all 13,000 words of chapter 9, and will enjoy the extra 42,000 of raza sessions that have been going on behind the scenes! Tumblr is not easily accessible and also has elected to be terrible, so the sessions are available on google drive via the link provided in the chapter! I strongly suggest going back through the fic for a total reread with the sessions included, rather than just reading the sessions independently; there are basically three fics in this fic, one inside the terminals, one outside (the one you've read!) and one with both of them combined, and I'm quite proud of all three of them. :D


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